


where the memories reside

by swingingparty



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF James "Rhodey" Rhodes, BAMF Tony Stark, Brainwashed Peter Parker, Brainwashing, Fake Science, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra Peter Parker, Identity Issues, Irondad, Kidnapping, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mind Control, NOT STARKER - Freeform, Not Canon Compliant, Not Really Character Death, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Has Issues, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Tony Stark, Slow Build, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-04-12 13:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 113,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19133425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swingingparty/pseuds/swingingparty
Summary: Peter Parker has been dead for six months.Six months, three days, and 18 hours.At least, that's what everyone things. Even Tony Stark, though he'd kill rather than admit it. But then a school in Queens is blown up and suddenly Peter Parker is back on the radar.Except he's not Peter Parker anymore.He doesn't even remember who that is.





	1. flash

Peter Parker has been dead for six months.

Peter Parker has been dead for six months, three days, and 18 hours.

Peter Parker was taken hostage seven months and 28 days ago, one cold autumn afternoon when he was out doing his rounds around Queens. No one - least of all Peter - had seen it coming. Unprecedented. The kid had been up against the Vulture, up against the Rogue Avengers, up against all sorts of villains and criminals. Bulletproof. He seemed bulletproof.

But Peter Parker was not bulletproof. Peter Parker was not bulletproof when he was tased and then stunned and then shot full of a drug that almost made his heart stop. Peter Parker was not bulletproof when he was taken back to the group that had captured him’s hideout and chained to a wall. Peter Parker was not bulletproof when, six days later, he was shot in the back of the head three times on a live feed broadcast to the Avengers Complex.

No one was.

The glass shattered. The world halted on its axis. Plants and animals and  _ life _ died, stopped breathing the moment the gun unloaded into the base of the boy’s skull, the moment his body hit the floor. Peter Parker was dead, so the world must die with him.

Except it didn’t. Because that’s not how things work, never was, never would be. Tony knows that. He’s seen enough death to know that that’s the exact  _ opposite _ of what happens to the world when someone dies. The earth keeps turning. Flowers keep blooming. People keep breathing. The world waits for no man, and it certainly didn’t wait for Peter Parker.

Tony did, though. He still does. Every day, every night, he waits. It’s hopeless - he knows, as if it hasn’t been drilled into his head by now. Peter Parker is  _ dead _ , there’s no turning back the clocks. No one can deny what they saw. The blood was there. The boy wasn’t breathing. The men surrounding him were smiling - they had  _ won _ , of course they were - Peter was  _ dead _ . 

But still, Tony waits. He’s not entirely sure for what. But he waits all the same. 

Reconnaissance missions. Tracking. Searching the same places over and over again. Endless hours of trawling through Friday’s database, looking for something - _anything_ \- that will explain where Peter Parker went and why he died and, arguably most importantly, _who_ killed him. Because Tony is a lot of things, and vengeful is definitely up on the list. There is a Peter Parker sized cavern in his chest and there always will be. No amount of drinking, of sleeping, of not sleeping, of tinkering and building and planning and adjusting and sitting and thinking and _waiting_ will fill that, but Tony’ll be damned if he doesn’t _try_. And finding the men who hurt the kid - _his_ kid - and killing them as slowly as humanly possible seems like a good place to start.

They - just he, after a point - find nothing. Of course they don’t. Of course the universe takes one look at him and spits in his face.

Peter Parker is dead. 

That’s the end. The finale. The curtain falls and the audience all goes home and Tony is left all alone in the theater. Just him and Peter Parker’s body, bleeding out endlessly through three bullet holes in the back of his head. 

It hurts so much it might as well have been  _ him _ who was shot. It’s a physical ache, a physical pain radiating around his body like he’s just been through a trash compactor. He can’t move. He can’t sleep. He can’t eat. He can’t hold a conversation. Every breath he takes is a violent reminder that Peter is no longer taking any. And it’s on  _ his _ head. He knows that, knew it the second the first shot was fired.

_ You should’ve saved him. Shame. _ That’s what one of the men in the room told him, wiping off the barrel of his gun. They were wearing masks. Their eyes shone out of them like pitch black stones, like obsidian. Hard as flint. Cold. Everything Peter Parker would never be. The eyes of a murderer. Tony was going to enjoy watching the light fade from them.

Except he wasn’t. Because it had been six months, three days, and nearly 19 hours since Peter Parker died, and he was no closer to finding out who had done it than day one. 

Useless. He was put on this world to create, to solve problems, to fix things. To fix the messes he had created. To fix the people he had hurt. To  _ bring back Peter Parker _ . The Mechanic. That’s who he was supposed to be

Merchant of Death has a truer ring to it. 

Because Peter Parker has been dead for six months, three days, and nearly 19 hours.

And it is because of Tony.

 

* * *

* * *

 

_ Click _ .

“What is your name?”

_ Click _ .

A flash. Hands reaching out, catching a soccer ball. A man with a mop of brown hair stares down at him, clapping his hands in excitement. Another flash. Cars. Headlights. Red light bathing everything, shimmering across the tarmac. A plane has gone down. Another flash. A small apartment. Everything is warm and golden and smells like burning bread. A woman with glasses smiles down at him. _Flash_. Goatee. Sharp eyes, sharp smile, gentle hands. Machine oil and a gentle hum. Trust. He _knows_ this man. _Flash_. Building. Car park. Cement. Water and cement and the car park is on him. _Flash_. Plane crash. Memories burning the back of his throat. _I’m trying to save you!_ _Flash_. Blood. _Flash_. Chains on his arms. He can’t move. _Flash_. Gunshot. Blood, too much blood. He can’t move.

Flash. 

“What is your name?”

_ Flash. Flash. Flash. _

He can’t remember. 

“Soldier.  _ What is your name?” _

He can hear it. The mechanic hum, the buzzing that reaches the back of his head and stays there. He can’t move, it’s the room, it’s the chains all over again. There is screaming, but it’s not his own. Deep. Terrified.

_ Peter! _

“My name is Peter.”

“Wrong answer, soldier. Let’s try again.”

The machine starts up. The bands wrap around his arms and head and mouth and he doesn’t struggle. There is no point.

The jolt slams into him like a freight train. Every molecule, every atom is alight. He is burning alive. He cannot move. He cannot think. He cannot breathe.

_ Flash. _

He can’t remember.

_ Flash. _

There is nothing to remember. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nobody:
> 
> not a single living breathing soul:
> 
> me: Oh? did i hear you say brainwashed hydra peter fic? Well, if you insist :-)


	2. weight

_Thunk_.

“Recon report following the attacks in Hungary.”

Tony stares at the stack of papers that have just been dumped on his desk. It’s huge and absolutely nothing in him wants to so much as turn the first page, much less go through it and actually try and process the information in there. He frowns, experimentally poking the cover with a finger. Above him, Steve gives a minuscule sigh and folds his arms.

“No casualties, thank god,” he continues, as if Tony’s disinterest wasn’t physically palpable. “Wanda and Sam were on the scene almost immediately, managed to evacuate the surrounding area. They got an anonymous tip off, untraceable as far as we know, but it helped. The guy got away, though. I’ve told them to lay low in the area for a few days, see if he returns. It’s possible this is the same group responsible for the other attacks around Europe, but it’s too early to say.”

Tony nods, neurons firing vaguely in his brain as he makes the connection. It’s been the fifth attack in the past two months. Two in Greece, two in Western Russia, and now one in Hungary. They’ve been destructive, wiping out huge swathes of property and land, but relatively nonfatal. Only a handful of casualties in the first attack and nothing since then. That’s mostly thanks to the system Tony and Steve had set up a little under a year ago. There would be regular rotations of Avengers or Avenger-affiliated people in and out of ‘crisis areas.’ Areas where Hydra was still active, areas where terrorist groups were active, areas where the Avengers had been and catastrophically fucked things up in, the whole lot. It honestly was a great system, and though he was loath to admit it at the best of times, Steve was productive and easy to work with, mostly. He hadn’t batted an eye at Tony’s request to divert team resources to looking for Peter when he had gone missing, and even seemed to be just as willing to keep looking for the kid as Tony, even after it became apparent that he really had been killed.

But all good things come to an end, and the past few months had been full of Steve slowly trying to prod Tony back in the direction of the defense team. The prodding only got more insistent as the attacks spiked in number as well as severity.

Tony can’t make himself care. It’s bad, it’s beyond unlike him to feel the deep, acute apathy he felt when thinking about the Greece or Russia attacks. He _cares_ \- it’s one of his only redeeming qualities. He cares and so he fixes things, makes situations better. Or at least tries to, and when his attempts blow up in his and everyone else’s faces, he fixes that too.

But he still doesn’t care. Hungary, the report, Steve, it’s all water under the bridge. He’s waiting for the SAR drone report due this afternoon, he’s waiting for Friday to finish running another scan, he’s waiting for his suit to upgrade so he can go out on another search. He’s waiting for Peter. Not for another stupid report to read.

“Tony.” Steve’s voice is soft but firm, commanding his attention back to him and Hungary and the report and the billions of things he’d rather saw a limb off than think about. “Look -”

There’s a speech coming. Steve has the expression, has the tone of voice, everything. Tony bites back a sigh. And a scream.

“I know you want to keep looking for Peter. And I’m not asking you to stop that. But - look, okay. We all saw what we saw. The kid’s vitals _cut out_ \- you saw it as much as we did. And I admire your dedication and care for him - really, I do - but you have other responsibilities -”

Of course he does. Because the world did not stop turning when Peter Parker hit the floor. No one else stopped breathing when Peter did. Not even Tony, and that’s probably the worst thing of all.

“- And this program we have going here, it’s effective, Tony. It’s helping people. It’s saving lives - _we’re_ saving lives. And I really need your head in the game for this, okay? Just a little bit. Just try.”

Tony doesn’t bother articulating that all he’s been _doing_ is trying. Trying to keep it together, trying not to go completely off the rails and drink himself to death or fling himself off the top of the complex or just up and leave. He’s been trying since day one to keep his press face up and keep his manners and civility about him, he’s been trying so hard to just move on. He knows it’s what Peter would’ve wanted - the stupid, selfless kid that he is.

He doesn’t bother articulating how _hard_ that’s been either. Steve doesn’t need to know. Even if he cares, which is always a little hard to tell with the stony-faced and unreadable captain, Tony’s not sure Steve’ll be able to _understand_ . Just - _understand_ what this loss feels like. Because yeah, Steve’s lost people. His parents, his Bucky, his entire life as he knew it when he woke up after 70 years on ice. _Everyone’s_ lost someone, it’s not like there’s an exact shortage of grief-addled people for him to share his pain with - death is kind of part of the job once you become an Avenger or a Avenger-friendly operative. But no one - _no one_ \- has lost a kid. And everyone lost Peter, yeah, he knows that. But no one lost Peter the way he did.

“Alright,” is all he says, straightening up and pulling the stack of papers towards him. “I’ll have a look through this. Is there - what should I focus on, specifically?”

“Any similarities between this and the cases from earlier this month. Attack patterns, specific targets, times of day, witness sightings, anything. We need a lead to go off of if this investigation is going to progress at all.”

Tony nods, biting back a groan. Great. So, not only does he have to wrap his dazed brain around 50 pages of reports, but he also has to _remember_ what was in the other four he wrote and read. _Great._

There’s a shuffling above him and Tony looks up to see - well, nothing. He drops his gaze a little and _there_ it is.

“You’re staying,” he remarks flatly. Steve looks up from the computer and notepad he’s set up on the other side of Tony’s desk and meets his gaze unflinchingly.

“Yes.”

 _God_ , one day Tony is going to throw Steve out of the top window of the complex and it’s not even going to be his fault. “I’d like some privacy.”

That’s another of his new habits. Being alone. Pushing everyone so far away they’re inches from falling off the metaphorical ledge. Honestly, most have already fallen off. Natasha seems to be intent on clinging to the edges and, after a point, Tony got tired of trying to make her leave. He didn’t even bother with Rhodey, really, The guy only had to give him one look and it was Tony who was backing off, retreating inside himself but not asking his friend to leave, necessarily. Pepper’s hung on too, if only by a mixture of her sheer force of will and Tony’s inability to really be cold with her. Steve, headstrong idiot that he is, also seems determined to stay.

It’s such a crushing parallel from everything that happened with them regarding the Accords and the Avengers fight. It was only two years ago, maybe even less, but it feels like a lifetime. Everything from that period of time - the Germany fight, the prison block, Thaddeus Ross, the hours spent scream-fighting over the Accords, his parents’ murder, Barnes, Siberia, everything - feels less like a memory and more like a realistic movie he watched. Like he can remember the plot, but the emotions surrounding it aren’t his. It’s probably for the best, anyways. He’s not sure if he has the emotional capacity to feel anything regarding that anymore.

Steve, meanwhile, is adamant. Of course. He opens the computer and turns it on, the fans inside whirring slightly. “Too bad.”

“Steve.”

“Tony.” Steve looks back up to him. His gaze isn’t angry, but it isn’t backing down either. _Stubborn asshole_ , Tony thinks and stares down at the papers in front of him. The words are melting together, running off the page and into pools of black ink below it. In the back of his mind, the heavy weight of all things Peter sits, slowly pushing down on the base of his skull. He barely has the headspace to remember what he had for breakfast this morning, if anything. Analyzing terrorist attacks and trying to _somehow_ come up with a fucking solution is completely out the window.

He’s tired. He’s been tired since day one, since Peter was shot. He just wants to sleep and sleep and sleep and wake up when this is over and Peter is back home.

But reality is a bitch, as always, and Steve _is_ right - Tony has a job. So he pulls himself back out of the abyss and shakes off Peter as much as he can. There’s always time for that later. Right now, he has work to do.

It’s calming, after a while. Not necessarily enjoyable, but a comfortable routine. Checking, analyzing, talking to Friday, even Steve, too. This is what he’s good at - allegedly - fixing things. Helping people, or at least trying to.

“They’re all done by the same people. Well, person,” he says after a long silence. Steve looks up from his notebook, brow furrowed a little. “I mean, look at it. Same build, same height, same general appearance. He’s even wearing the same hat. And the video footage shows similar mannerisms, like the way he walks and stuff. Friday ran a scan and it turned out to be a pretty high probability of it being the same guy. 89.6%”

Steve huffed. “So, same person doing it, same person behind it?”

Tony nods flipping through the pages. “Yeah. Not discernible whether the guy doing it is the guy orchestrating the events or he’s just following orders, but the continuity shows that the events are definitely linked. And - get this - the scorch marks made by the bombs? They’re all from the same _type_ of bomb, and it’s not something that’s really out there on the market.”

Steve’s jaw clenches a fraction. “What type?”

“Vibranium.”

Steve mutters something, a curse, maybe, under his breath and taps away at his computer. “We need to get in contact with T’Challa. No one else is supposed to have access to this stuff except for them.”

Tony nods. “The only outside examples of vibranium technology - that _I_ know of - are your shield and Barnes’ arm. Both were imported directly from Wakanda, anyways. There are no other sources - T’Challa would’ve had a full body seizure by now if there were.”

“So someone’s defecting?”

He shrugged. “Not sure. It’s impossible to say. That is possible, but I don’t think it’s a personal attack against the nation. Or else why are all the bombings happening in Europe?”

Steve hums, typing away at his computer. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll call T’Challa this evening, tell him what’s going on and ask him if there have been any local disturbances. You keep at the report, okay?”

It says a lot that Tony doesn’t even bother to bristle under being given a direct command from the captain. He just nods, half listening as Steve steps outside, phone up to one ear, notepad in the other.

He slips back into autopilot, checking and rechecking the report, highlighting and marking things for Steve to look at later, scribbling down notes in the margins, logging some data for reference in Friday. There’s no way the Vibranium bombs are unrelated incidents. Even if the attackers are somehow sneaking the stuff out of Wakanda, there’s no way they’re getting enough to distribute to different organizations. That stuff is volatile if not kept in proper containment, and it’s near - if not totally - impossible to get contained vibranium in and out of the country. A couple of milligrams at most of uncontained vibranium was all that’s possible to get out of the country undetected, and that was only enough for one, maybe two bombs of the size and destructiveness that had been used in Greece and Russia.

It could be HYDRA. The group had been silent for a long time, and Nick Fury hadn’t picked up anything in his active searches for the remnants of the organization, but that wasn’t saying anything, really. HYDRA was the master of completely collapsing in on itself, disappearing for a couple of years and giving everyone the impression that they could finally _breathe_ before rearing its head and wreaking havoc again. Tony frowned. It just didn’t make _sense_ , though. No one had been killed and though the bombs were placed in pretty public areas, casualties didn’t seem to be the end goal of the attacks. It read more like...showing off, in a way. Like the attackers were just making a scene.

“Anything on the facial recognition, Fri?” he asked.

His AI hummed for a moment before responding, “No, sir.”

Tony balked. “Are you kidding? I can see the guy’s face. How can _you_ not run a proper scan?”

A light in the corner of the room flickered a little in the AI’s irritation. He hasn’t exactly been a bubble of positivity towards Friday over the past few months and it’s probably grating on her. He chews his lip and fights back another surge of guilt. No time. “I am able to detect a face but the scan is turning up nothing from my database.”

“The Government doesn’t have anything on him either?”

“No, sir.”

“So, what then?” Tony sets a sheaf of paper down and pinches the bridge of his nose. “This guy’s just never been in trouble or something?”

The desk lamp flickered a little. “Not necessarily, sir. Even if the individual had never been in contact with law enforcement or the United States government, there would still be a record of his existence in my database. But I am getting nothing, sir. It appears simply that this individual does not exist.”

Tony pinches his nose harder. “Okay,” he says, voice strained. “Well, obviously, he does. He blew up a fucking building or two. Or, you know, eight. Kinda hard to do that if you don't exist.”

“I did notice that, sir. That fact did not escape me.” Sarcasm drips off the AI’s voice and, despite himself, Tony cracks a small smile.

“Ha, ha,” he intones. “You’re funny, Fri.”

“Thank you, sir. I learned from the best.”

“Damn straight. But no, the guy exists. So, what, then? Did he just avoid a census whenever the government came knocking, or something? Kept out of the radar?”

“Potentially, sir. Another possibility is that any record of him has been wiped.”

“Wiped? Like, what, it just seems like he’s never existed?”

“Exactly, sir. It seems implausible, but not impossible. Technology such as that exists, especially if the person in question did not exist outside government records.”

“So, like, not a big-shot, then? Never been in the paper or on TV or anything like that?”

“Precisely, sir. If that was the case, only government records would have to be altered, and that would be as simple as deleting a few files once you had accessed them main database. Which, as you yourself has shown, is not an impossible feat with a good intellect.”

Tony leans back in his chair, frowning. That suggest, then, that the guy carrying out the attacks has been engineered, basically, for that exact purpose. In retrospect, while he had pretended it was nothing much at the time, his own hacking of the Pentagon had been no mean feat. And Tony was _far_ from stupid, especially when computers and technology was involved. No one would go through the process of wiping someone else out of existence just for fun, nor would that happen by accident before the guy in question was just _conveniently_ found by some criminal organization. No, the attacker was there because he had been created to be there. Tony’s sure of it.

“Alright,” he says aloud, still frowning. “Where’s Steve?”

“Mr. Rogers is in the living room of the compound, sir. He is accompanied by Ms Potts. Would you like me to tell them you are coming?”

Tony’s frown deepens. Weird. “Uh, no. It’s fine.”

He gets up, shoving his chair back and hurries out of the office. It’s a two minute walk from where he was to the living room but it passes without him even registering it. Before he knows it

“How is he?” Pepper’s voice is soft and filled with concern and it takes Tony all of two and a half seconds to figure out exactly which ‘he’ she’s referencing.

None other than Tony Stark himself. He grimaces, shifting closer to the door, shoving down the guilt bubbling up in his stomach. It’s a different type. Less of the _everything-wrong-that’s-ever-happened-is-all-his-fault_ type and more of the _he-knows-that-what-he’s-doing-is-very-_ very _-not-good_. Hey, it’s good to switch it up sometimes.

“He’s...okay.” Steve’s voice, shot through with the same concern as Pepper’s. He’s no stranger to it, to their gentle voices, careful not to talk too loud in case he finally shatters because of it. Sometimes it even feels like everyone _else_ thought he was the one who died, not Peter. “Got him back a bit while we were working on the Hungary mess. He was just like his normal self.”

“That’s good,” Pepper says and Tony can’t miss the layers of worry and exhaustion and sadness in her voice no matter how hard he wants to. He’s not sure what’s worse, the fact that all of that is going on just underneath the surface and she won’t talk about it, or the fact that it’s all because of him. “How long?”

There’s a pause and Tony can picture Steve shrugging, his brow furrowed with gentle concern that should’ve been trademarked by the soldier long ago. He can picture Pepper pacing, picking at her nails like she always does when she’s worried and guilt, the everything-is-your-fault kind, slams into Tony so hard it knocks all the air out of him.

“30, 40 minutes? I had to go and make some calls, so I’m not sure what he’s doing now.”

Another pause. Tony reaches out and fastens a hand around the door frame. He grips it, _hard_.

There’s an audible sigh from Pepper and Tony’s heart has time to clench painfully in his chest before she speaks.

“I miss him.” Her voice is soft and tired and Tony’s whole body aches suddenly. Like every ounce of the fight that’s been holding him up, cushioning him from reality, melted away suddenly and now all he’s left with is his body and the gaps in between where Peter should be. The aching hole in his chest that opened up the second the kid died.

Because he was dead, wasn’t he? Tony could pretend all live long day that there was hope, that the scans and the searches would bring something - _anything_ \- to light that would lead him to the kid. And maybe they would. Maybe one day he would crack it and find where the group had been and he would fly there and bust down the door and Peter Parker would still be on the ground with three bullet holes in the base of his skull.

Peter Parker would still be dead. The weight of that slammed into him, crushing him down like he’s nothing more than a paper cup. He exhales forcefully, trying to breathe around the tangled knot in his chest and the empty space in his body where Peter once was. Peter would be _gone_ . He _is_ gone.

He steps back, away from the door and the murmured conversation and the weight of Peter’s death that he knows he will never outrun. He moves away from where Pepper and Steve are, talking, still talking. He can’t even remember why he was there in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did someone say 3k words of tony having Feelings? yes? good here you go. wonder who that dude running around Europe blowing things up could be though...hm.....much to think about....


	3. weapon

“Good morning, Number Three.”

He opens his eyes. Same walls. Same ceiling. High, arching. Dark corners. Something growing in them - mold, maybe. He’s not sure, he doesn’t care. It’s the same walls. He remembers them.

He does not remember things. He is not trained to remember. He is trained to fight and carry out orders. He is trained to kill.

 _Memories are an inconvenience._ That’s what Sir says. _They get in the way. They trip you up. You are a better soldier when you do not remember things_.

He agrees. Memories are annoying. Little tugs in the back of his head that throw him off, make his chest hurt even though he has not been punched, make his throat close even though he can still breathe. They are inconvenient. He is better without them

“Good morning.”

“How did you sleep?”

He thinks for a moment. He doesn’t sleep. He is put under. The machine is brought out, strapped to his face. He closes his eyes, against the pain more than in an actual attempt to sleep. The machine hurts, but it is necessary. Everything Sir does is necessary. He is building him into a soldier, into a weapon. Weapons do not need to sleep.

But, formalities. “Good.”

“Good,” the voice echoes, and Number Three shifts his gaze to his right slightly. There he is. Sir. Number Three does not know his real name. There is no need for that. His name is Sir because that is how he asked Number Three to call him. So he does.

He complies. He follows orders to perfection. That is his job.

“Mission update,” Sir continues. “New target located. Szeged, Hungary. Your target -”

A hologram screen flashes before his eyes, the blue light harsh against the grey and black background of his room. He squints as building comes into view. Sharp and tall. Modern. Stone walls crumbling just a little at the corners. Scaffolding surrounding the western face. Nothing else distinguishable. He takes it in, burns the image into his memory.

“- is this building in the city center. Inside it are several of these -”

Another image replaces the first. Small metal circles. Reactor cores. That much he knows. Those are his missions, for now. Find reactor cores. Pick up reactor cores. Blow up location in which reactor cores were hidden. Return back to the base. Four steps. Simple.

“- cores. Six, to be precise. Your objective is to retrieve these cores. They are located in a vault at the bottom of the building. We believe they are in a safe, but it should not pose a difficulty to crack. You will then navigate to the other side of the room you are in. There will be a scaffold; it is holding up the building while work is being done on the exterior. You are to place the bomb you are given at the base of the scaffolding and set destruction time for five minutes. You are then to escape via one of the ventilation ducts that leads up to the street. Make your down the block. A van will pick you up there. Understood?”

Understood. “Ready to comply.”

Sir smiles. “Excellent. We will be putting you under until your arrival. Medic.”

A snapping of fingers. Another figure emerges on his side and he feels rough hands grabbing his arm, turning it over so the palm faces upward. Number Three fixes his gaze back up on the ceiling. Dark ceiling. Dark corners. The needle enters his arm and he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t feel pain because weapons do not feel pain and that is what he is, a weapon.

Primary target: New York. He doesn’t know where. He hasn’t been told and he will be told when he needs to know. So he doesn’t think about it. Just sits with the information in the back of his head.

He blinks slowly as the needle retracts and the figure disappears. Fuzziness is crowding at the edge of his vision, the corners going black like the corners of the ceiling. He blinks again. Szeged. Hungary. Reactors. Bomb. Scaffold. Szeged. Hungary. Reactors. Bomb. Scaffold. New York.

Number Three knows very little. He is not told much. He does not care - as Sir says, he is most effective when he knows only the essentials. So he learns the essentials, burns them into the back of his head like the image of the building. The rest he does not care about. He is Number Three. He is a weapon. And that is all he needs to know as the blackness consumes him.

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing he notices about Szeged is that it is cold. His jacket does little to keep out the chill and he shivers despite himself. Then frowns. Weakness is not a valuable thing for a weapon to possess, and shivering is a sign of weakness. Weakness is a distraction. And distractions are unforgivable, especially on missions.

The map of the city has already been memorized and he navigates his way through the streets like he’s lived here his whole life. It’s easy. Memorization is easy, it always was, for as long as he can remember.

He can remember very little, though.

He shakes that off. Now is not the time for thinking. He has a job. He has a target.

And the target is fast approaching. He sees it as he turns the corner, passing some children seated on the concrete, batting a black-and-white ball between the two of them. There it is, looming above the lower lying residential buildings and shops. Scaffolding wraps around the upper half, dirty tarps and stray poles hanging off the sides haphazardly. It is empty, he can tell that by a single glance. The workers must have the day off.

He slips around the lingering people moving through the courtyard. He blends in, hat pulled low over his face. _Just a precaution_ , Sir says. _They won’t recognize you anyways_. And he trusts Sir, and believes what he says. Still, the hat is nice. Despite the deep chill, the sun burns high in the sky.

He doesn’t slow his pace as he approaches the front of the building. He doesn’t look around. Looking around gives the impression that he does not know where he is or if he belongs, and if he gives that impression, people will become more easily suspicious. He is effective because he is invisible, another face in the crowd. Drawing suspicion makes him less invisible, which makes him less effective, which is a reality that cannot happen. So he barely stops to pull out one of his tools from the bag slung over his shoulder. A lock breaker. Incredibly useful, especially when retrieving the reactors. He presses the edge of the tool to the padlock wrapped around the door handle and turns it on. There’s a small whirring, then a click and the lock falls off and lands on the dusty concrete with a soft _clang_. No one looks up. He is invisible.

He jerks the door open and steps inside. The building is cool and dusty. Footprints line the stairs and the desk at the front of the room has a hole through it. Tools lay scattered around the room and he kicks one out of the way as he makes his way to the stairs. The metal scrapes against the concrete. The sound is loud, but he knows it’s just because there is no other noise. He is alone.

Down a flight of stairs. A left at the bottom, down a corridor filled with more tools and open walls. The plaster has not been put up yet, and he can see straight through into all the other rooms. Dust particles move idly around the room, illuminated by the sun breaking through from the staircase. Last room on the right. He turns into it, boots crunching on the broken wood and dry paint and tarps as he makes his way past a small set up of chairs and empty wrappers. There’s a handheld radio with a fine coating of dust, a small white box - a refrigerator, there is one just like it back at the base - and a black one next to it. The box is not a box, however. It is a safe. This is Number Three’s target.

He unlocks it in a second. The reactors are there, all six of them. Without power, they are harmless chunks of metal, and he tosses them in his bag. In their place he pulls out a small metal circle. The center glows with a faint purple light, shining in the gloom of the corner of the room. He makes his way out of the room, back down the skeleton of a hallway and towards another room. The one with the scaffolding. He examines it for a moment. With the bulk of the support resting on it, the bomb will be most effective at the back corner. He sticks it to one of the metal supports and presses the center. There’s a tiny whirring noise and the whole thing glows a bright purple now, activated. He has five minutes.

Retrace his steps. It’s a process that takes him under 30 seconds, easy. He is trained for this. He steps back into the front room and pushes open the door and looks to see the same courtyard as before.

Except totally empty.

He looks up. In the sky, there’s a tiny black pinprick. His skin crawls, suddenly. Someone’s found him.

He takes off, sprinting down a back alley. One block. Five minutes. Above him, the pinprick hangs, suspended. It’s looking. But he is fast, faster than anyone in the sky. He is made for this.

He vaults over a crate of fruit and skids to a halt at the corner. There is the van. The faces inside, he doesn’t know. But the van he does.

“Do you have the shit?” the driver asks. His eyes are also on the sky. Number Three nods, one hand gripping his backpack. The side door opens, and the driver jerks a hand at him. “Get in!”

He does.

Far behind him, in a corner of a room of an empty building, the bomb explodes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh! now this is some Action! some Excitement! who is this fun Number Three guy! much to think about still


	4. phonecall

Somehow, Tony ends up back in his room.

He’s not sure how. When the grief for Peter had been at its worst, he would have moments where he would blank out completely. Sometimes just for a few minutes, where he’d start a thought in the middle of the kitchen and somehow finish it outside on the front lawn without so much as a single clue as to how he’d gotten there. Other times it’d be entire hours, even days, where he just couldn’t remember anything. He would go to bed at two in the morning one day and wake up at four in the afternoon two days later and be none the wiser to anything that had happened in between. He half figured it was just his brain sparing him of the grief and pain and endlessness of it all that hit him during those moments. Better to forget everything than to remember how that felt.

It had been a quiet moment of pride for him when he had stopped having those episodes. When suddenly he was making it through whole weeks without spacing out and disappearing. Grief, the loss of Peter, the whole mess had undoubtedly done a number and a half on his memory, but he had gotten better. He could remember how he got from one room to the other. He could remember each thought he had before bed the previous night, remember enough to pick them out and examine them, like bizarre artifacts, dissect them until there was nothing left for him to linger over.

But the guilt, as always, still lingers. Sometimes the consciousness feels a little too much like moving on. And Tony knows he can’t move on - not fully, at least - because that’ll be the end of the line for Peter. He knows he’s the last person on the planet who harbors a sneaking, secret hope that the kid is still alive somewhere, and if he surrenders that to reality, then that’s it. He can’t do that to Peter. He deserves better, so Tony clings on by the skin of his teeth. Barely at that.

And still he gets better. There hasn’t been a full day, yet, where Peter hasn’t crossed his mind, but he makes it far, sometimes. Some days it’s almost a full 12 or 18 or 20 hours before his head hits the pillow and nightmares come crowding in before he thinks about the kid.

So, it’s fair to say the first thing he feels when he suddenly realizes he made his way across the compound without at all remembering doing so is disappointment. Bitter, cold disappointment. He sighs, staring around the room. He’s not sure what he was looking for, or why he came. He knew he was avoiding - escaping, whatever - Steve and Pepper’s little tête-à-tête in the living room. He can still hear and almost _feel_ their worry and concern seeping through the door, washing over him in sickly waves, dragging him below the ocean of all things his fault. He shakes it off.

Okay, lie. He doesn’t, he can’t, never will. Tony can abide by a lot of things - and he definitely has. Worrying the people around him doesn’t even come close to making it on the list. He was raised self-sufficient, for better or for worse. He can - or at least _should_ \- cope alone. Worrying people is selfish and stupid, in his eyes. No one has to _worry_ about him. He shouldn’t be an important enough thing for that to happen.

Still, he is, and he fucking hates himself for it.

Tony sighs, clenching and unclenching his hands. The room feels too small, suddenly, and more than ever he just wants to call the suit and blast himself through the roof and up to space. He wants to sit there among the stars that are probably already dead by now and just...disappear.

Responsibilities - and the knowledge that Pepper would probably drag his corpse back from space and revive him just so she can kill him with her bare hands - holds him back. Finding Peter holds him back, because that’s still not a thing he’s given up on. Despite every atom in his brain still capable of logical and intelligent thought telling him he’s just making it worse by holding onto an idea that’s beyond impossible, he still hopes. Like a child. Like a stupid, stupid, child.

His picture is framed above Tony’s nightstand. He kept it there throughout the days where Peter was missing, despite Pepper’s gentle reminders that it probably wasn’t helping. It certainly didn’t help him sleep any easier, but part of Tony liked to think of it as a motivation, in a way. Like the kid was watching him through the glass, reminding him that he was still out there, he was still missing. Turns out, it hadn’t helped at all, and Peter was still killed. It was after that realization hit that he stuffed it in a drawer for two months before finally caving and pulling it back out. Now it just sits there, watching him. Even through the dull sheen of the photograph and the glare off the meticulously polished glass, Peter’s eyes still sparkle like they’re the real thing. Like it’s really him in there, hiding, waiting for Tony to somehow break him out.

He wonders if the kid in there knows it’s a lost cause. Day by day Tony does.

They had held off on a funeral. At first, Peter hadn’t even been confirmed to be dead. Tony refused to accept it, May refused to accept it, everyone did. The footage could’ve been faked, they argued, it could’ve been a body double or a wax model or something - _anything_ besides the real Peter. But then Tony had finally accessed the kid’s vitals via the bug he had had put into him a while back, and there was seemingly no denying it. Peter’s heart had stopped. Brain activity had slowed, then dropped, the cut out entirely. Pulse was 0. Motion activity was 0. The kid was _dead_.

And still, no funeral, mostly because Tony refused. May had come to him, the day after the vitals report had come in, sobbing. He, being the emotionally stunted and grief-addled idiot that he was, hadn’t even invited her inside. He just stood there on the doorstep, holding her as she sobbed wordlessly into his arms. He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. But she did and finally she stopped, calmed down enough to force out the single question: _what are we going to do about the funeral?_ Tony had just stood there as she resumed her tears. He hadn’t had an answer then.

But maybe he had one now.

Closure. Pepper talked about it a lot, in the moments where she had to play fucking therapist for him because he was too weak to deal with things on his own time. God, did that woman deserve better. But she kept coming back to the idea of closure - still does, as a matter of fact. Like the people in old movies, setting their ex’s clothes on fire and watching the ashes float up into the sky and somehow feeling a great surge of emotional peace from it. Tony had internally brushed the idea off as bullshit - seeing a casket dropped into the ground wasn’t going to change anything regarding how he felt towards Peter’s death.

But maybe. Maybe now…

“Fri?” His voice is soft, too soft. Howard would get a kick out of him now. _Weak, stupid, soft little boy_. Tony had tried so hard to prove him wrong, but Howard Stark was dead and buried now, so maybe it didn’t matter anymore. He clears his throat, dislodging the memory. His father was and always would be too much to unpack now. Maybe later. “Call May Parker.”

They hadn’t spoken personally since the crying on the doorstep incident. He had sent her reports when necessary, she had responded with thanks, that was it. The truth of the matter was it wasn’t the awkwardness following the doorstep moment that kept him out of contact. She reminds him too much of her nephew for comfort, and he’s half certain she feels the same way about him.

Still, he can’t help but feel a flicker of relief when she picks up. They had had solidarity in the moments surrounding Peter’s dissapeparence and murder. They felt the loss on a different level. They understood - she understood him.

“Tony? What’s wrong?”

Closure or not, he’s still a coward. And he can’t talk to Peter Parker’s aunt for more than five minutes without choking up, he’s sure of it, so this is going to have to be brief.

“I’m gonna make this snappy, because I’m honestly not sure if I’m stable enough for this right now.” Hey, honesty is the best policy and whatever. “But I would love to get together sometime and talk properly when I’m running on significantly more sleep. I’ll have Friday email you my schedule - _don’t -_ ” He cuts her off as her voice picks up again. “Please don’t say anything. I’m being deadly serious when I say you sound way too much like the kid and I really don’t want this call to turn into 50 shades of me sobbing my lungs out. I just - okay. What I called to say was I think we should have Peter’s funeral soon.”

He makes the gesture for hanging a phone up where Friday can see it and the line goes dead.

Then he starts crying.

He’s not sure how it happens. One moment he’s breathing normally, hands on his knees as he sits at the end of the bed. The next thing he knows he can’t breathe and it feels like there’s an animal trying to claw its way up through the cavern in his chest and out of his mouth and he can’t fucking _breathe_ and the weight - the weight of Peter, or May, of Steve and Pepper’s worry, of the inevitable funeral, of the closure he’ll never get, of the grainy security camera footage of Peter being shot in the head three times that haunts his every waking moment - crushes down on him like a collapsing building and all he can do is fucking _sob_ as grief pounds into him. His hands are shaking and he’s shaking and the dull ache in his chest has evolved into a fully fledged burning and breathing is like inhaling through cotton and the kid is a physical absence, a physical hole in him and he might as well have been bleeding out on the bed sheets, that’s how much it hurts.

There’s a door opening and someone hurries into the room in a blur of movement and he can’t _see_ through the tears that won’t stop coming and can barely think, barely form a coherent thought other than the never ending internal scream of _Peter’s gone, Peter’s gone, Peter’s gone_ . But even with the fog and haze and the _agony_ he knows it’s Pepper. He reaches out to her, instinctively, like she’s a lifeline and her hand slips around his back, holding him to her and he’s so scared that if she lets got for even a second he’s going to shatter into a million pieces because Peter is dead, Peter is dead, Peter is dead and he can’t stop crying.

“I told May to have the funeral,” he gets out at some point between the sobs ripping through his body. He’s breathing in barbed wire now, his throat is bleeding and his head hurts and he can’t see and still he sobs like it’s going to do _anything_ , and a part of him is furious, furious he’s breaking like this, furious he can’t keep it together, furious he’s putting it all on the one person who deserves it the least. But most of him just _can’t_ care because behind the fog is the agonizingly clear, unwavering knowledge that _Peter Parker is fucking dead._

Pepper says nothing in response. She just holds him and he cries and the ache in his chest burns on and on and on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> realistically though would it be a fic written by me if it didn't have at least 3 solid chapters of tony internally monologuing (that's not a word okay) angstily about peter in some way? absolutely not. also tony is not doing well and i am sorry i love He and i don't know why i whump him every single second of the day man it is not ok!! what!!!
> 
> also in case you couldn't tell i'm really coasting on my intense desire to write all of this fic in like 4 seconds flat. let's hope this lasts bc Wow. this is Fun


	5. dust

“Mission report.”

The words hit him the second the van door opens. He steps out. Two men are flanking him, arms brushing against his as he removes the bag from his shoulder and opens it to show the reactors. A smile crosses Sir’s face before it falls back to its usual blank expression.

“Mission successful,” Number Three says, a little unnecessarily. His head is starting to ache.

“Good.” Sir turns on his heel and back through the glass doors, jerking a hand at him, signaling to follow. He does. The arms of the two other men still brush his as they make their way past the doors and into the gloom of the base.

Big rooms. Dark walls. Cold air. Different to the chill of Szeged, though. The chill goes straight through his jacket and skin and right into his bones. He frowns. Something, something. A flicker. _Something_.

_“What are you talking about? That thing hasn’t even touched me yet!”_

_“True. Then again, wasn’t really trying to.”_

_There’s a flash. Groaning, like wood splintering but deeper, so much deeper. Fear._ Fear _. He’s_ afraid _and the man is smiling. There’s wings, whirring, fans blasting. Dust hits the back of his neck, then a jolt on his shoulder, and then, and then -_

 _Rocks. Dust. Pressing him down. Ashy taste in his mouth, water pooling by his face. Neck is hot and sticky. Red. The water is red and he can’t move and he can’t breathe and the walls are gone because the walls are_ on him _and he can’t move, he can’t stand, and someone’s screaming, screaming, screaming -_

“Number Three!”

He gasps, jerking back like he’s coming out from being held underwater and everything is cold and dark and heavy and it’s _heavy_ , the building - it was on him and this _isn’t right, something isn’t right, he shouldn’t be here, he’s not safe_ but he is because he’s a weapon and he’s indestructible and he’s not afraid _but he is because there’s screaming and it’s coming from him and he needs to run, he needs to run_.

Sir - the man, there’s something wrong about calling him _sir_ , he _knows this, he knows_ \- steps forward and there’s hands on his arms and neck and his knees hit the concrete too hard, a dull _thunk_ echoing around the too dark and too cold room. He looks up. Eyes on the man’s face. There is something wrong, something tugging at the back of his mind like a fish hook and he _knows, he knows this man, he knows who he is_.

“Soldier!” The man snaps, hand reaching out to grab his face, fingers squeezing too tight on his chin. “Soldier, look at me.”

He drops his gaze. Cracks in the ground, cracks in the concrete, cracks giving away and everything is falling and he’s trapped, he’s trapped here like he was trapped there. _He shouldn’t be here, he’s not safe, he’s -_

The slap stings. He blinks. Once, then again. Burning. _Where is he?_

Another slap, then another, then a punch straight to the face. He rears back, jerking, but he can’t get away. The other arms are wrapped firmly around him, pressing him down, bowing his head. There’s blood on his lip, in his mouth. Tastes like rust, tastes like iron.

Familiar. Too familiar - _this isn’t right, where is he -_

Kick to the stomach. He bows, instinctively, sucking in a breath that suddenly isn’t there. Kick to the back of his head, then face, then he’s on the ground and there’s dull connections with his ribs and the hands around his arms and neck are gone and he realizes, through a rapidly descending fog, that the men are kicking him. Hurts. _It hurts._ He can’t breathe and it hurts and there’s blood in his mouth and eyes and he opens his mouth to cry out and another kick sucks all the air out of his chest and body and lungs and it _hurts._

A fist through his hair, dragging him up into a kneeling position. Vulnerable, he is vulnerable now but that doesn’t make sense because he is a weapon and weapons are not vulnerable but something is _tugging_ him, screaming that he is _not a weapon_.

“Look at me,” Sir - the man - snarls. His eyes are dark. Like flints, like the corners of the room around him. Number Three inhales and it’s shaking, _he’s_ shaking and everything _hurts_. “ _Look at me!”_

He does this time. Muscle memory. His ribs won’t take another beating. They keep their boots hard and stiff and new just for this.

“What is your name?”

The question feels familiar. He doesn’t know. There is nothing there, no offering of a response from his brain. His name is not Number Three. He is not Number Three and _something_ inside his head is telling him that he _knows_ this. But there is a cold, empty space where the right answer should be and he shakes his head, furious, because this isn’t right, this isn’t right, none of this is right and _what the_ fuck _is his name?_

“I don’t know.” His voice is soft and weak and he knows the man glaring into his face _hates_ weakness and he does too - weakness is not for weapons, weapons can’t be weak, and he’s not a weapon, he knows, but if he isn’t a weapon then what the _hell_ is he?

The man leers. His eyes are too dark. “Wrong answer, soldier. Your name is Number Three.”

 _My name is Number Three_. The words bounce around his skull. They feel wrong.

“Fuck this,” Sir snarls, standing up and walking away. He stays there, on the ground, blood dripping into his eyes. It stings. “Get him up. Strap him in. I want a full wipe this time - full fucking throttle.”

Fear burns through him as he’s hoisted up and dragged across the room. His vision is foggy and his head aches from the effort but he recognizes the chair, the contraption around it like a suspended helmet and he’s fighting, screaming against the restraints that are being fastened onto his arms and the hands holding him down because _this isn’t right and he_ knows _it isn’t._ Or maybe the resistance is just in his head. He can’t tell. Everything hurts too much to tell.

The helmet goes down, fastening onto his face and suddenly he can barely breathe. Fear wraps around his chest like ropes and he can’t _breathe._

The first jolt hits him like a train. Then the next, and the next, and the next and if the pain before had hurt, this is a new level of sheer, burning agony and maybe he’s screaming again, or at least trying to, he can’t really tell but it _hurts_. Every inch of his being feels like it’s being ripped apart, atom by atom, molecule by molecule.

“Crank it up,” someone screams in the distance. _It hurts, it hurts, it hurts_ . He can’t focus, can’t think, his brain is screaming and he is screaming and it all hurts so much and he wants - needs - it to stop because it _hurts_ and he is going to _die._ “We need him totally clean. He’s unstable now, and we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere. Imagine what will happen when we get to New York.”

The pain racks up again and suddenly it stops. He’s floating. He’s gone, left his body, maybe he’s died.

 _New York_.

The name is familiar, too familiar, and something is wrong but his brain has stopped listening, stopped fighting because there is no more pain and suddenly he is so, _so_ tired.

But the name. He _knows_ that place. The name - a name - something, something, something.

Flashes. A tall tower, sleek black car. Smell of motor oil and coffee and sunlight pouring in and buzzing and clicking and faces - he _knows_ those faces, he knows _that_ face. Goatee. Eyes, dark. Kind. Gentle hands. Glasses. Suits. Smile. He knows this man.

 _Tony_.

The name is there, hanging heavy in his brain. Like a stone through water. Like a brand on his skin. A curse. A _promise_.

Then he blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short update! also me vs. knowing at all what to title my chapters when they're not just numbers. also wow number three is having a TIME! poor dude. hope he has fun in new york idk heard it's pretty cool there!
> 
> also also! leaving for a two week trip where i won't have service (much)(hopefully for a few days) so updates will be a little lacking. i'll keep writing while i'm gone and see what i can finish up today but apologies for the incoming absence!!


	6. dirt

The funeral was going to be a quiet affair.

May had called him back a couple of days after his message. She had been shockingly calm and composed - more composed in a 40 minute call than Tony had been throughout the past six months put together - while doing so, listing off the technicalities and asking Tony’s opinion on stuff like music choice and time of the service. The Parkers were not a very religious family - or at least Peter wasn’t, as far as Tony knew, and May by extension - but he vaguely knew Peter’s parents had attended church, bringing Peter with them every so often. They were buried in a quiet corner of their local cemetery, near the flower patch growing on the outskirts. It was a strikingly beautiful place - Tony had been once with Peter on the last anniversary of the plane crash. It had only been a few months before the kid disappeared, but now it felt like lifetimes ago.

Ben had, according to May, been buried in the same cemetery, one plot over. Something about consistency. Tony had done his best to give a coherent response and ignored the twisting in his chest as he realized how many Parkers would be buried in that same section of land once Peter’s funeral came and went. May had lost so many - Mary Parker, who had been like a sister to her, Richard Parker, one of her best friends, Ben, and now Peter, the boy she had thought of as her own son. 

It wasn’t fair on her. None of this was fair on her. Tony could accept divine punishment, or whatever the hell this was supposed to be -  _ god knows _ he had done enough to probably deserve it over the years. But May Parker was a saint and, more importantly, completely innocent. She didn’t deserve this.

The final question had been put off until the end of the conversation, until they both were feeling confident enough in their abilities to discuss the death of Peter without breaking down to pose it. He, surprisingly enough, had asked it, not her. He had figured she’d done infinitely more leg work than him and would probably continue to do so long after the day had passed. The least he could do was at least bring the subject to light.

“So,” he had said, staring fixedly at one of his nails. There had been a streak of oil running across it. He hadn’t washed his hands all day. “What day were you thinking?”

A pause. Then the pause turned more into a pronounced silence that he could feel pressing against him like an oversized down comforter and suddenly Tony felt extremely compelled to talk and fill it.

“Not that I’m trying to put it on you,” he had hurried, staring harder at his nails like he could disappear straight through them, like it could somehow take the pressure off his chest and make the conversation any less borderline unbearable. “I just thought, you know, he was your nephew. Your - relation, I guess. I’m just - I was just the, you know. Haphazard mentor, I guess. I thought you should probably call the shot on this one, but if you’d rather not -”

“No, no,” she cut in. Tony could almost picture her shaking her head at his rambling. “It’s fine, it’s - thank you. How about on the 17th? I’ve got work off, it’d be easy for me to get down to the - the cemetery, and stuff. I don’t - it’s a school day, but I’m sure Morita would excuse any of Peter’s friends who wanted to come.”

He closed his hand into a fist.  _ Too final, _ his brain had screamed at him in the silence of his room.  _ Too final. Too much like giving up. _

Hell, his stupid subconscious wasn’t even close to being wrong. Wasn’t this what that is - the giving up thing? He - and May, too - surrendering their last bits of hope that Peter was still alive somewhere, fighting to find his way back home?

Part of him reasoned that this wasn’t  _ giving up _ , necessarily speaking. It was just - closure. Like Pepper said. A way of letting go of the bad parts of the kid’s  _ alleged _ death, so he could focus on finding him and bringing him home with a clear head, as well as any other job Steve dropped his way. Seeing a casket lowered into the ground wasn’t going to convince him that the kid was dead. It wasn’t. 

Horsehit. He knew it, May probably knew it, everyone did. He had been on the track to giving up for a long time now. If anything, this was just sealing the deal.

It wasn’t giving up on the idea of Peter being alive more than it was giving up on the idea that the universe could be good enough to let that happen. Tony’s cynicism had racked up to unheard of levels over the past half a year and there wasn’t a molecule left in him that believed something that genuinely  _ good _ could happen. 

So he had said yes, agreed to the date without so much as a moment’s hesitation, at least externally speaking. Maybe it was selfishness, the desire to go to bed at night without the looming thought of Peter hanging over him like some spectre. So many other things he had done with Peter had been born out of selfishness, out of the love he had for the kid that seemed to traverse all common sense and all the voices in his head telling him that Peter was better off without him. 

“You know,” May had blurted out suddenly, just when Tony was gearing himself up to hang up and return back to the silence and emptiness of the complex. “You were - I mean - it wasn’t just the haphazard mentor thing with you to him. He - god, Tony, he  _ loved _ you. Absolutely fucking adored you. You were - you were like a father to him.”

He almost wished she hadn’t said it, because it made every ounce of grief he was feeling so, so much more painful. It made him want to scream, to take back everything he had just said about burying the kid and moving on and all that  _ bullshit _ because there was no moving on from this and, shit, the kid had thought of him as a _ father _ . 

What kind of  _ father _ gave up on his kid like this?

He had pushed that down. Slammed the lid on that can of worms. No time. May was grieving too, probably more, probably worse because she actually  _ was _ a parent to Peter, not just some shitty stand in who couldn’t do his job right. She didn’t need his grief too. 

“Yeah,” he had rasped, clenching his hand hard, nails digging deep into his palm. “Yeah, I - yeah. Thank you.”

It wasn’t her he should’ve thanked, they both knew that, but May was wise enough to let the matter slip. They had said their shaky goodbyes and hung up. 

So it was going to be a quiet affair, the funeral. May wasn’t inviting anyone, really. There was no other family but her and even though her friends loved Peter and had felt his loss deeply, it just didn’t feel right having them at the funeral, she had said. Too many loud sobs and running makeup and overbearing sympathy. Too much at too hard a moment as it would be. She extended the invitation to Peter’s close friends - Ned and MJ and a bunch of other names that went in one ear and right out the other - and that was it. Tony invited Pepper, mostly because she had loved Peter deeply, but also because he was 110% sure he would not survive a second at the event without dissolving into tears without her there to guide him along. Weak and stupid, but the alternative - a fully fledged breakdown, probably - would be worse. A handful of Avengers were invited too - Natasha, Steve, Rhodey, Bruce, Barnes - because he and the kid had developed a close friendship, despite his internal despair. 

A small crowd. A good crowd. The type of people Peter loved and trusted and would’ve  _ wanted _ there, more to the point. Not that they had ever discussed his hypothetical death situation. The kid had always seemed bulletproof to Tony, capable of surviving everything and anything thrown his way. 

But Tony hoped -  _ hopes -  _ that the affair would be one that would’ve made the kid happy. He hopes. 

The day of, he’s regretting it. He regrets most things, normally at all points in the day, but this specific thing at this specific moment is especially bad. 

His tie is tied. Jacket smoothed to perfection, not a crease in sight. Pants perfectly ironed. Cufflinks from a set Peter had given him for his last Christmas - a million lifetimes ago. The cufflinks are good, but the rest of the suit makes his stomach harden. It’s the same suit he wore to his parents’ funeral, some 20 odd years ago, and he can’t help but feel wrong,  _ disgustingly _ wrong, for doing that. Peter is not his parents. He is miles beyond anything they could ever hope to be. Howard is, as far as he is and always will be concerned, the scum of the earth. He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same oxygen as Peter, much less be commemorated in the same article of clothing. And even Maria, with her strained affection and cold front that teenage Tony always felt was because he had been born and existed and was just  _ there _ , couldn’t come close to comparing to the kid. 

Because the kid was _ good _ . It was a hard thing to articulate because  _ good _ was such a flat and empty adjective. A color could be good. Coffee was good. Movies were good. But Peter was - Peter was just  _ good _ . All kindness and compassion and gentleness and this deep seated desire to not only save the world to  _ understand  _ it, figure out the things that made it have to be saved in the first place and  _ fix  _ those. He left everything better that he found it. Even Spider-man hadn’t been a power grab, it hasn’t been about buddying up with the Avengers or some shit, it hadn’t even been for personal satisfaction. It had been because Peter had just wanted to  _ help people.  _ Whatever the personal risk. He just wanted to help. 

So, no. He didn’t deserve the same suit as Tony’s parents had gotten. 

But Tony’s resolve to actually  _ go through  _ with the plans for the funeral had been weak from the start. When the time had come around to get an outfit for the day, he had backed off. Scared. Going out and buying an outfit and getting it cut and fitted and tailored made the event too real. He couldn’t do it, didn’t have the strength to seal the deal like that, so he didn’t. He pulled out the Howard and Maria suit from the back of the closet and blew the dust off it. It felt all sorts of wrong. 

All of this feels all sorts of wrong. It’s giving up. It’s  _ cowardly -  _ it’s burying the kid so he can fucking  _ work _ and sleep at night with the hope that he’ll have just a few less nightmares. Stupid.  _ Selfish _ , he’s selfish, he’s  _ so fucking - _

“Tony?”

It’s Pepper. It’s always her, she’s always there. Solid and gentle and breathing and  _ here _ . He smiles a little, despite himself. 

He hears the floorboards creak gently as she steps towards him. He tries not to flinch back, cringe away as she comes up behind him and lays a hand on his shoulder. He just sighs, trying to release the build up of tension in his body through the exhalation

It doesn’t work, not even remotely. Pepper must notice because her grip on his shoulder tightens fractionally. 

“Happy’s out front. We’re ready to go.” Her voice is soft, gentle. Like if she talks too loud he’s going to crack and shatter into a million pieces at her feet. Honestly, he might. 

He sighs again, shaking his head a little. Game face time. He has to hold it together now. He owes every single person who’s had to put up with him for the past six months that, at the very least. 

“Okay,” he says, and his voice barely comes through.  _ Jesus, Tony. Get it together.  _ “Okay,” he tries again. A little more confident. 

He turns to face Pepper, trying - and failing - to ignore the worry lines around her mouth and forehead and the deep sadness somewhere in the back of her gaze and the bruise-like shadows under her eyes. He’s not sure where any of it’s coming from - grief over Peter, or worry over him. Probably both, probably a bit too much of the latter for his comfort. He grits his teeth. 

“You ready?” She knows he isn’t, but it’s the thought that counts. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Not a lie. Probably.

 

* * *

* * *

Not that Tony’s really an expert on the matter, but he’d like to think Peter would be happy with the service. 

It’s quiet.  _ Thank god,  _ is Tony’s selfish internal dialogue. It’s not like his parents’ funeral, where everyone who was anyone showed up and all felt compelled to talk to Tony as much as possible. It had been suffocating to the point of tears.

But today was nicer. Quieter. By the time he and Pepper had arrived, the majority of the attendees were already there, gathered in a small circle outside the front of the church. Natasha, dressed all in black and looking like she might kill the first person who talked to her. Steve in a suit and tie, face characteristically stoic. Rhodey off to the wide, eyes cast downward. Barnes in a suit just like Steve’s, hair carefully brushed out of his face and only the smallest glint of metal shining through on his hand. There had been no response from Bruce in regards to the invitation - come to think of it, Tony hadn’t heard from the guy in ages. No time for that now, though. Peter’s friends had been a no-go, too. Something about midterms. 

May is the first to come up to him as he and Pepper step out of the car. She looks almost as shitty as Tony feels, and his heart clenches in a too-familiar sense of sadness. 

“Hey,” she says softly once she’s reached them. Tony gives her a smile that he hopes is comforting and communicative of all his feelings. It probably reads more like a grimace of pain. 

“Hi, May,” Pepper says, resting her hands on May’s forearms. A look passes in between the two of them, silent and full of emotion he can’t wrap his head around. He just stands there for a moment before crunching gravel sounds behind him and he turns around. 

He half expects it to be Rhodey, or even Steve. But there’s a flash of metal in the brilliant June sun and long, dark hair and he can’t hold back the flicker of surprise that probably crosses his face. 

“Tony.” Barnes’ voice is far beyond the low, gravely tone full of nothing but menace he had when he was known only as the Winter Soldier, but the deepnessis still there. It goes straight through Tony’s ears and into his bones. 

He nods his head. Sometimes it’s hard to separate Barnes from the Winter Soldier. He won’t deny the guy he knows now is, well, a good guy. Surprisingly gentle, great with Peter. But it’s the same face, the same hands that murdered his parents. Some days there’s no getting past that. 

But Barnes’ eyes are clear and filled with a sadness that Tony wants to never see again. He lost Peter, too. They all did. 

“How are you?” Barnes tips his head to one side. 

Tony huffs a dry laugh. “How do you think?”

Barnes doesn’t miss a beat. “Probably very shitty.”

“Got me there.”

There’s a pause. Barnes doesn’t break eye contact. “Steve stopped looking for me after a while. Before I came back as the Winter Soldier, I had been declared MIA. He serched - went back to where I disappeared, went through endless amounts of databases, the whole thing. And eventually he stopped, and moved on. He rebuilt his life. I don’t think he ever forgot me while I was gone, but he didn’t let the thought hold him back.”

“What are you trying to say?” He knows, but he wants the man to spell it out for him. 

“What I’m saying is no one’s going to accuse you of giving up. Or letting Peter down, or - whatever. You’re doing the right thing. You’re saying goodbye.”

Tony wants to slap him just out pure emotion. He settles for gritting his teeth and clenching his hands - hard. 

“Yeah, well, maybe if I had done the right thing in the first place I wouldn’t be having to say goodbye now.”

Barnes blinks. Tony takes his silence as a say-so to keep talking. 

“I’m not saying goodbye,” he mutters. “I’m - this is formality, okay? You think I’m giving up on the kid? Fuck no. This is just - this is just a -”

Barnes sighs softly and Tony falters. He’s a bad liar at best and the sensation in the back of his head is threatening to explode out of his mouth. Because he  _ is _ giving up, letting the kid down and making him fend for himself. That’s exactly what he’s doing. 

“Whatever,” Tony says as a means of breaking the silence. Barnes’ face remains calm andnimpassive, but there’s a flash of something in the back of his gaze. Tony ignores it, the selfishness creeping back up on him, the endless scream that  _ he’s suffering, he’s suffering and his kid is dead and everyone else is acting like  _ they’re  _ hurting but Tony lost his fucking  _ kid. It’s shitty, a ridiculously shitty thing to think, but grief does that to him. He turns away, towards the church and steps inside without another word to anyone. He can feel gazes - Barnes’, Steve’s, Pepper’s, probably - burning a hole in the back of his neck as he leaves. 

The service is quiet. Just like everything else. 

Tony barely registers a word of it. 

The next thing he knows, they’re standing outside in the corner of the cemetery, surrounded by tall grass and flowers and headstones. 

Barnes’ words float back into his head like some annoying poltergeist. 

_ No one’s going to accuse you of giving up.  _

And maybe that’s right, but Tony certainly will. He can’t - he  _ can’t  _ not when the kid’s casket was literally lowered underground and Tony stood by and let it happen. If  _ that  _ isn’t giving up, what is? He squeezes his eyes shut and the whole scene - the flowers, the people, the headstones, the dirt - disappears into a starburst of light popping in the inside of his gaze. 

_ You’re doing the right thing.  _

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what’s right and what’s wrong and what’s just plain weakness anymore. It’s like Peter died and every single solid belief he had was smashed to pieces and he’s left in the rubble, no idea what to think anymore. 

He casts a side eye to May next to him. Her eyes are closed. Tony knows she’s thinking, he knows he should shut the fuck up and leave her in well-deserved peace, but of course he just can’t. 

“Does it feel like giving up to you?” he asks softly, shifting his gaze back staring at the overturned dirt. It smelled fresh, like there had just been a rainstorm. It was oddly peaceful. Tony feels like a piece of shit for thinking that immediately after he did.

May doesn’t respond right away, but her eyes snap open. They look past the dirt by Peter’s grave, fixating a little above, somewhere beyond the wrought-iron fence surrounding the cemetery and the stone walls of the church in the background. Maybe they’re not even looking here. Maybe they’re looking somewhere in the past, at a memory she had with Peter, something nice and rose-tinted and full of love.

Tony can’t make himself remember right now. He’s holding it together by a fraction of a string. He owes everyone -  _ everyone  _ \- here composure, the ability to get through a half hour service. He owes it to Peter. God knows the kid would be beyond upset and uncomfortable if he knew Tony had a meltdown at his service. He would blush, entire face going red - seriously, the kid was like a light up tomato or something - and stammer something about Tony not having to worry, about how he didn’t want to bother him or make him upset. He would defelect any of Tony’s sadness or worry or guilt, cracking some stupid science joke that Tony just couldn’t help but laugh at. Because that was how Peter is. 

Was. Technicalities. 

“Yes.” May says after her pause. She doesn’t elaborate and Tony almost doesn’t want her to. That’s enough, really. They both know the subtext. 

That giving up makes them weak. That it lets down Peter at a point where he could need someone to believe in his existence and believe in his  _ life _ more so than ever. It could put him in danger, get him killed for real. 

Tony sighs. He digs a small hole in the dirt with his toe. He’s tired - when isn’t he, really? - and all he wants to do now is go home and sleep. Sleep and sleep and sleep and not have a single nightmare, not see a single flash of security camera footage or hear a single gunshot or see a single clip of Peter’s body on the floor of some hideout in the middle of nowhere, bleeding and cold and lifeless and -

He goes to suck in another breath and suddenly it won’t come. His chest is on lockdown, his lungs have thrown in the towel completely. He’s not there, he’s not at the grave, he’s somewhere far away in a dark bunker in the middle of the earth with a bed frame and chains on one side of the room and a dead body with a mop of curls and blood running down the corner of his mouth and Tony squeezes his eyes shut against the vision but it persists, hanging on by tooth and nail. He’s not there, it’s not real, he  _ knows _ it’s not real because he wasn’t fucking  _ there  _ when the kid died, isn’t that the whole  _ point?  _ But his protests doesn’t matter, reality doesn’t matter because he can almost smell the kid’s blood and feel the dirt underneath him and the hole in his chest is ever present, ever screaming  _ your fault, your fault, his casket is underground because of you.  _

Tony,” she says calmly, as he looks back down to the dirt. Her hands are half extended in a placating gesture, but also like she’s bracing herself for an explosion. “Tony. It’s me. It’s me.”

He looks bsck up, squits at her though the sunlight and the burning sensation in the back of his gaze - he will  _ not _ fucking  _ cry;  _ that would be  _ beyond _ ridiculous - and it’s stupid, so fucking  _ stupid _ , but all he can see when he looks at her is brown curls and a bright smile and warm eyes and just  _ Peter.  _

He wonders dimly if she sees her nephew in him, too. In the way Tony rambles when he has an idea - a habit Peter was quick to pick up - or in the way his hands flail about, or the science-y jargon, or the gentle retorts they would fire off easily. 

He hopes she doesn’t. Because looking at her now, it’s like the cave in his chest is widening. Her eyes are the same. Hair, too - both a golden brown color. He closes his eyes. He can’t. Not now, not now. 

“Tony,” she says. Her voice is gentle, hands are gentle, and it’s almost enough to stop the endless playback of security camera footage running in his head. “Tony, please.”

He can’t miss the note of pleading in her voice as she says that, nor can he miss the alarm bell ringing in head - despite the fog of grief smothering him - telling him that soon people are going to notice him and come over and pry and look at him with the same worried eyes as May and ask him what’s wrong and the only answer he’ll be able to muster is a broken,  _ tired _ , “I miss him.”

Because he  _ does _ , he does so much and maybe  _ that’s _ why the hole in his chest hasn’t closed up - because Peter is  _ still _ gone and Tony just fucking  _ misses him _ . He can deal with the trauma, the fear, the guilt of putting Peter through a dangerous situation if the kid had fucking  _ survived _ . But he didn’t and it hurts, it hurst so fucking much because all he wants to do is go into his workshop with the kid and tinker, work on their stupid ongoing projects and banter and tease each other and laugh and just  _ be together.  _ He just wants the kid here. He just wants the hole to go away, to close up, to  _ stop hurting _ . 

“I’m okay,” he says abruptly, snapping him out of his own thoughts like a rubber band. He straightens up - too fast, still not breathing well enough - and the cemetery tilts a little. May’s worried expression floats in and out of focus for a second. He blinks and shakes his head. “I’m okay,” he repeats. Like that makes it any more believable. 

“Like hell you are,” says another voice behind him, gruff and almost amused -  _ almost.  _ But it’s Rhodey, and this is not a situation Rhodey would be laughing at. 

He turns and is met with full force by his stare.  _ Fucking hell _ . He just wants it to stop - the looks, the smell of dirt, the hole in his chest, everything. 

“Tony -” his friend starts and Tony holds up a hand to stop him. It’s shaking. 

“Don’t,” he says, and his voice is steady but the tremble in it isn’t lost on the Coronel. It sounds like he’s begging, and a voice in the back of his head sneers.  _ Weak. You’re fucking weak.  _

“Go home, Tony.” He hates how gentle Rhodey sounds. He hates that they’re all suffering, all missing Peter too, and all

he can do is hone in on his own feelings. It’s so fucking  _ selfish _ . He’s being selfish. “Go home. Get some sleep.”

He can’t even be bothered to argue. Rhodey rests a hand on his shoulder, calm and steadying, and Tony just nods. May’s in the corner of his vision, watching him, something written across her face. He doesn’t process it. He can’t. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says. As always, though, the universe has other plans, and the fragile silence that descended over the party is shattered violently by a screeching of wheels and a beat up Sedan barreling up to the front of the church. It skids to a halt, gravel gearing on gravel, parked diagonally in the driveway. There’s a bumper sticker on the front that reads ‘honk if you think Pluto is a planet.’ Tony’s mouth dries up. 

Because he  _ knows _ that sticker, he remembers watching Peter order it on Amazon a while ago, during one of his sleepover nights. He had grinned from ear to ear as he clicked  _ add to cart _ , looking up at Tony as he had said “she’s going to  _ hate _ this.”

It had been a birthday present. For one of his friends - MJ. That was her name. Peter talked about her a lot, always with a lovesick look in his eyes and a dopey grin on his face. The kid had been absolutely smitten. Seeing her now, striding our of the car, made his stomach hurt. Peter deserved to get to live his stupid high school crush out to it’s end. It wasn’t  _ fair.  _

He’s snapped out of his thoughts by the realization that she isn’t supposed to be here - finals, school, hell, she  _ said _ she wasn’t coming. And yet it’s undeniably MJ, plus another guy who Tony recognizes to be Peter’s best friend, Ned, who come storming out of the car. MJ’s in the lead, and she doesn’t so much as breathe in the direction of the others as she marches up to Tony. She walks past Captain  _ fucking _ America without so much as a second glance and, at any other time, Tony would’ve found that hilarious. 

But he can’t, because not only is it his  _ kid’s fucking funeral _ , but one look at the two teens and he knows something’s wrong. They’re both coated in dust and little while flecks that look like ash. The side of MJ’s face is scraped up and bruised-looking, like she started a fight with a breezeblock and lost. There’s dried blood running down Ned’s temple, and his eyes are bright - even in the late spring sun. MJ’s expression is icy, but she’s shaking. 

“Midtown was bombed,” she says without missing a beat and something cold sinks into Tony.  _ Hungary _ , his brain offers.  _ Greece, Russia.  _

But that wouldn’t make sense. All those attacks were Europe-based. Why, if it even was the same person, would they switch to New York all of a sudden?

“I - okay,” he says as a means of response. Alarm bells are now ringing clearly in the back of his head and a gut sense is telling him that something’s  _ very _ wrong. “Why - why are

you telling me this?”

It’s blunt, maybe too blunt, but MJ doesn’t seem phased. She raises her chin at him, eyes dark with a fear that hits him right in the stomach. 

“He did it. I saw him.”

And there’s only one  _ he _ she could be talking about, only one person who would bring her and Ned here during the tail end of a funeral they said they couldn’t come to with tears in his eyes and her hands trembling. 

But he  _ can’t -  _ it  _ can’t  _ be him. It - hes fucking  _ dead, _ he  _ died _ , Tony  _ saw  _ it. They’re at his  _ funeral _ , for god’s sake. She must’ve seen it wrong, or she was mistaken or she was -  _ lying,  _ or -

But she’s not. Tony knows off the bat that MJ isn’t the type of person to lie. Especially not about this. Nor does she seem like she'd be easily mistaken. 

“Who did it?” Steve cuts in, appearing somewhere near the side of them, subtext totally lost on him. He doesn’t seem to be alone. Rhodey’s brow is furrowed, Natasha and Pepper look totally lost. May looks at him, then at MJ, then back at him. Her eyes are widening with palpable shock. 

Because it  _ can’t be _ . It just  _ can’t.  _

“Who?” Steve repeats, leaning forward. His eyes are dark with confusion. 

MJ inhales, breath shaking just a little. The ground feels unsteady, like it’s about to give in with the weight of what MJ’s about to say. Tony copies her, drawing in a shaky breath. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know what to  _ feel _ . Everything from confusion to joy is coursing through him, plus a new emotion he hasn’t felt in a  _ long _ time. 

Fear. 

“Peter,” she says suddenly, and the other shoe fucking  _ slams  _ into the ground. “Peter did it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hi! dropping in real quick to publish this! sry it’s not the best my writing process was very Scattered for this one ah
> 
> btw support i’ve gotten in this fic has been? mind blowing? you guys are the sweetest?? thank you????


	7. midtown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Parker has been dead for six months.
> 
> Six months, three days, and 18 hours.
> 
> At least, that's what everyone things. Even Tony Stark, though he'd kill rather than admit it. But then a school in Queens is blown up and suddenly Peter Parker is back on the radar.
> 
> Except he's not Peter Parker anymore.
> 
> He doesn't even remember who that is.

“Good morning, soldier.”

He blinks his eyes open. Unfamiliar walls. He thinks. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where he’s been and where he hasn’t. But these aren’t the walls of the base. They’re the same - arching, high, grey and damp-looking - but lighter, brighter. He can feel a draft of warm air run over his face.

 _Summertime_ , something inside him offers. _Summertime breeze_.

He takes that information and looks at it. He’s not sure how he’s remembered what season it is, but he has. It’s unimportant. however. Seasons, weather, all mindless details. He has no time for them. What is important is that he’s in a new location, which must mean -

“Welcome to New York City.” Sir gives a broad grin from where he’s sitting - standing? - at the corner of Number Three’s view. He can see the man’s eyes flash a little, something within them. He can’t tell what.

He doesn’t care. Soon, he’ll have a new target. A new focus. All other things - _distractions_ \- will melt away.

“You have a mission, of course,” Sir carries on. He snaps a finger at Number Three. “Sit up. Focus. I want you to understand the objective perfectly, got it?”

He nods mechanically, sitting up. Something deep inside him aches. He ignores it. No pain, he has no time for pain. He has a target - or at least he will. Soon.

“Right now, we’re in a service bunker approximately 10 minutes from your target: Midtown Tech High School. A local STEM school, in the district of Queens.”

An image pops up above his head. It’s of an article of clothing. A red and blue full body suit with a hood and thick-looking pair of goggles. In a second, the image is burned into the back of his brain.

“This time, you won’t be retrieving any cores. Just this.” A finger points at the image suspended above him. Blue light emanates from it, washing over the room. “Then, of course, you’ll plant a bomb, as per usual. Covering the tracks and whatnot. Plus, a diversion might come in handy.”

_As per usual._

“Will the school be in session?” he murmurs, almost more to himself. He’s not sure what made him ask.

Sir pauses briefly, then replies. “Yes. It’s about 10:20 in the morning now. You’ll arrive at the location by 11:00, during fourth period. If you’re worried about being exposed, don’t. Your visual appearance makes you a natural fit for a high school environment. No one will question you being there.”

 _Your visual appearance._ Number Three hasn’t seen himself in a very long time. He rarely - if ever - comes across mirrors and reflective surfaces and, even when he does, his mind is normally focused on other things besides examining himself. It’s one of those unimportant things. Distractions.

“Mission understood?”

He blinks, shaking away his thoughts. No time for any of that. “Ready to comply.”

There’s a clapping sound somewhere around him. “Alright. _Medic_ \- over here! We’re going to put you under and when you wake up, we’ll drop you off at the school. Get in and get out. No messing around. We’ll be watching you.”

He nods. This is routine, this is easy. He doesn’t mess around. He’s efficient and careful and _successful._ He’s a weapon. His job is to be successful. Nothing new.

_Midtown Tech High School_

The name floats in and out of his thoughts as a hand grips his weits and he feels a sharp poke somewhere on his forearm. Blackness crowns his vision, making it difficult to think, difficult to focus on the name weaving its way in and out of his brain.

He blinks once. The ceiling of the complex blurs.

_Midtown High._

One more time, for good measure. He has to remember, he has to remember it all. The suit flashes through his mind, all red and blue and heavy goggles and fish hooks snagging his rapidly darkening brain.

There’s something. There’s _always_ something.

His vision goes black without another thought.

—

When he comes too, metal walls of a van surround him. There’s a faint smell of gasoline and burning rubber coming from somewhere and he blinks, long and slow. The mission comes back to him in bits and pieces.

Suit. Bomb. High school. Blend in. Quick.

The suit in question flashes through his vision again, the image still imprinted on the back of his eyes. This will be easy. They always are.

A hand reaches out from somewhere above him and slaps the metal wall to his side.

“Up and at ‘em, soldier. Boss says the thing you’re looking for is in the main hall, under locker number 384. Go in through the door right in front of us, up two flights of stairs, and to the left. Main hall should be right there. You gotta sort of lift up the lockers to get to the suit, but it’s easy, apparently. Put the bomb wherever the suit is. Got it?”

He nods, sitting up. Two eager faces stare back at him, all dark hair and dark eyes and coldness. He blinks again and touches his head.

“Where’s my hat?” he asks. He wants his hat. Blending in or not, it will help.

Someone tosses it at him and he jams it over his hair, pulling the brim low over his eyes. He can tell it’s hot outside. Even the fan blasting in the corner does little to alleviate the stuffiness. He’s wearing a hoodie. Maroon. Probably won’t help with the temperature. Unimportant, however. A little heat won’t get in his way.

“Time?” he asks.

“10:45”

“We’re early.”

“Who gives a shit, kid?” The man sitting opposite him sounds annoyed. He tosses the lock around the van doors aside and kicks them open. Sunlight floods into the compartment. “Just get going. Bomb’s in the bag.”

A gesture indicates his bag sitting in the corner. It’s upside down. He frowns a little and rights it, slinging it up and over his shoulder. Without another word, he steps out of the doors and across the pavement to the entrance to the school. They’ve parked in a back alley, and it’s likely he’s going in through a back entrance. He slips in easily - no lock on the door, and steps in to a chilly basement. Long hall, flickering lights. The air tastes of old papers and eraser shavings. The stairs are just visible at the end of the hallway. He frowns. Up two flights, then to the left. Easy.

His footsteps are loud against the concrete as he makes his way to the stairs, even despite his careful steps. He half wonders if someone will come down here, stop him, ask him questions. But Sir said he’d be find, that he looks like he belongs. And whatever Sir says is right, so he stops thinking about that and quickly climbs the two stairs.

The main hall is brightly lit and totally empty. Sunlight floods in from the huge bay windows to his right, bouncing off the metallic lockers and right into his eyes. He squints and looks around for a clock. 10:46. He’s still early, then.

There’s a door to his left with a blue circle stamped on it and white lettering readings ‘MENS.’ A bathroom. He knows this, recognizes it from somewhere deep in his mind. He blinks, shoving the snagging feeling away, and enters.

He’s not sure why. He doesn’t have to go to the bathroom, and the sooner he does the job, the sooner he can leave and the less likely he’ll be to get caught. Part of him is _furious_ that he’s taking time away from the task, not doing what he’s supposed to be doing, but something Sir says had stuck to his brain.

_Your visual appearance._

Number Three hasn’t seen himself. Not as far as he can remember.

The mirror is cracked and dirty, water stains blurring his reflection slightly, but it’s still clear enough.

His first thought is that he’s shorter than he expects. He looks - _small_. His hair - what he can see of it around his hat - is tufty-looking and curly, with strands poking out from under the brim. His eyes are a dark brown. He looks tired. Surprisingly tired. The shadows under his eyes look more like bruises. Maybe they are. There’s a lot of scars on his face too - some cutting through his eyebrows, one long one running down the side of his cheek, a pale white line running through his lip. He touches his face gently. It’s warm. He’s alive.

It’s a realization that leaves him a little unsteady. He’s _alive._

 _You’re a weapon,_ he reminds himself. But he’s also alive - warm and living and _breathing_ with the scars to prove it.

He shakes his head. He’s wasting time; this is pointless. Of _course_ he’s alive - this shouldn’t be _news_ to him. He doesn’t have to stand around reveling in the fact that he has a functioning heart and warm blood. He needs to snap out of this, to _focus._

He exits the bathroom, careful not to bang the door, and surveys the hallway again. Still empty, still quiet. He has time.

It takes him under a minute to locate the correct locker number and even less time to figure out how to lift it open. It’s like muscle memory, like he’s practiced this before. It’s easy. These jobs are easy.

The suit is ratty. There’s mud stains running down the front and a tear near the neck of the hood and the whole thing smells like rusting iron - blood, probably. He wrinkles his nose. It _really_ smells of blood. He half-wonders what happened to it before shoving the thought away. One last part of the job, one last task. The success.

He has an order. He has a procedure. It’s why he’s so successful - because he sticks to his plans. He’s not sure what’s into him today - it’s beyond frustrating, all this lack of focus and order - but it _has_ to stop. He is Number Three. He is a weapon. Weapons do not fail.

He reaches around and tugs his backpack to his front. With one hand he reaches into it and pulls out the small, purplish disc. He checks the back. Five minutes from activation, it will explode. That’s plenty.

He fastens it to side of the small trench under the locker and straightens up, slamming the lockers back into place. The noise reverberates around the empty hallway, bouncing off the surrounding walls and shooting straight back into somewhere near the center of his brain. He winces.His head is starting to ache again.

He moves back from the wall. Around four and a half minutes now. The van better be ready and waiting. The bombs aren’t exactly small in the damage they cause.

He’s almost there. He almost makes it, almost gets away, but then a door down the hall slams and blood starts roaring in his ears at a deafening volume. He freezes and turns to the sound, and _that’s_ it, that’s the mistake.

At the end of the hall stands a lone figure. One hand dangles at her side, a giant cardboard sign hanging from it. The other is half-raised, almost like it’s pointing at him. Signaling him out, putting a light directly on him and he feels like his skin is _burning_.

Her mouth drops open and Number Three can’t move. Her eyes fix on him and pin him down and he can’t _move._

“Peter?”

The word slices through the silence. He flinches instinctively. Somethings wrong. Something - that _name,_ there’s _something._

The speaker - a girl, a high school girl - is still staring at him, mouth slightly open. She’s tall, with wiry brown hair and piercing eyes. They remind him of Sir’s with their intensity, but it’s different. Not so cold. Full of shock. Shock and something alien and different and _warm._ Almost burning. He’s burning, he feels like his skin is on fire and something is so wrong and his _mission_ but he can’t _move_.

“Is that you?” she says, softer this time. It’s somehow the loudest sound in the hallway. He blinks. Once, then again. Something, there’s something, there’s _something._ The fish hooks are threatening to rip his brain apart and he needs to go, needs to leave and get back to the van and _leave_ , but he’s frozen.   

He’s frozen solid.

He blinks again. The girl is staring at him. She looks frozen too. Her face is so different to what he’s used to with Sir and his workers. It’s full to bursting with emotion and his skin is crawling and burning and the name she said - _Peter -_ won’t leave his brain. It’s stuck. He’s stuck.

Because there’s _something._ He knows, he _knows._ He’s not sure what, but he _knows_.

A loud beep shatters the silence between them, and he flinches. His gaze flicks over to the locker. The _bomb_ \- he’d forgotten about the bomb. What was he _doing?_ He wasn’t supposed to do this - he was made for efficiency. He’s supposed to be automatic - he’s a _weapon._

He moves his gaze back to the girl one last time. Her face is still exploding with a million things he can’t even begin to understand. But the fish hooks are gone. The name, the girl, they don’t mean anything. They’re just distractions.

He backs up, slowly at first, hyper aware of the fact that he only has a minute - at most - before a hole the size of a house is blown into the building. But then she starts walking toward him, quickly, and he turns on his heel and _runs_.

It would be easy to kill her. There’s a knife and a handgun in his bag - in case of _emergencies_ , Sir says - he’s well trained, it would be _easy._

But he can’t. He can’t and it’s so _weak_ he wants to scream. He doesn’t understand this - this sudden - _hesitation._ He’s not supposed to - he’s deadly. That’s what Sir says. He’s deadly and cold and he’s supposed to feel nothing and yet the image of the girl is flashing endlessly across his eyes and it’s making him feel _something._ And he doesn’t know what it is, but he knows he can’t kill her. He _can’t_.

So he runs. He runs and runs and bursts through the door and down the stairs and _runs_ . He runs into the dark hallway, passing by the still-flickering lights, skidding on the dust coating the floor. He _runs_ , up through the hack door and out into the alley and through the open van doors and almost collapses into the empty seat on the wall.

“Did you -”

He doesn’t blink. _I am a weapon. I am a weapon._ “Yes. Drive.”

They do, skidding down the back alley and up to the main street. Number Three can feel his heart pounding all throughout his body. His head _hurts_.

They stop at a light, the driver letting out a stream of curses and slamming his palm down on the wheel. Number Three turns in his seat, looking back through the grimy window. He can see the school in the back, the name stamped out on the front in huge bronze lettering.

Then there’s a _boom_ that shatters the whole universe.

He clenches his fists as a mushroom cloud of fire and black, _black_ smoke flashes by the window. The noise echoes and echoes and he grits his teeth against the surge of _something_ bubbling up in his chest.

He can hear the faint sounds of alarms and screaming. His chest tightens.

The light turns green and they drive on and on and on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter feels a little Whack. i think i’m messing up my own characterization oops. also! my spell check has taken a little vacation so apologizes for the 1749362 typos that are probably in this?
> 
> thank u again for all the support!! love u all lots<3


	8. promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Parker has been dead for six months.
> 
> Six months, three days, and 18 hours.
> 
> At least, that's what everyone things. Even Tony Stark, though he'd kill rather than admit it. But then a school in Queens is blown up and suddenly Peter Parker is back on the radar.
> 
> Except he's not Peter Parker anymore.
> 
> He doesn't even remember who that is.

“One more time.”

“I’ve explained it, like, six times, how hard is it -”

_“One more time.”_

Tony pinches the bridge of his noise as he speaks. His brain is running a million miles an hour and every single neuron is firing at high speed. There’s an endless stream of background noise, a voice in his head screaming _he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s fucking alive, he’s_ alive that he does his best to tune out. Focus, he has to focus.

Still, _he’s alive_.

Not for sure. Not even close to for sure. One person’s eyewitness account. That’s it.

But it’s _hope_ . It’s the hope, the one good thing the universe did that he’s been searching for for _six months_ . Finally - _finally -_ there’s a chance. There’s a chance Peter is still alive, breathing, blood pumping through his body instead of out the back of his skull. And it hurts. The joy coursing through his body is so strong it’s almost agonizing. He can’t sit, he can’t breathe, he can’t so much as _speak_ because Peter is alive. Peter Parker is fucking _alive._

Ned and MJ are sitting on the couch across from Tony. They’ve been cleaned up, given something to eat, had the blood and dust wiped off of them - mostly. Behind them, Natasha is paving tight circles, butt of her handgun resting against her chin. Rhodey and Steve stand by the window like sentries, wearing twin expressions of confusion mixed with a blistering sort of relief. Pepper and May disapppeared together as soon as they all got back to the compound. Peter’s aunt had burst into tears almost immediately after MJ broke the news, and Tony had been too shocked and stunned and over-fucking- _joyed_ to do anything but just stand there.

He’s probably jumping the gun a bit. A lot. There was no avoiding _how_ MJ knew Peter is alive - because he had blown up a solid portion of his high school. That thought makes Tony’s stomach harden painfully. It’s _beyond_ unlike Peter to do something like that. Even in life or death situations he had always looked for the out, looked for the way to win without hurting anyone, if he could avoid it. Tony had _seen_ the kid in fights, he could never kill someone unless it was - well, Tony honestly had never been sure if the kid had it in him or not to kill. Bombing a place filled with people he cared about - friends, peers, teachers, Ned and MJ, for god’s sake - without seemingly so much as a second thought seemed a little out of character.

Understatement of the year. Maybe even of the century. It isn’t right, Tony knows that. There’s something off about the whole situation, too many plot holes. But _still -_ he is _alive_ . All other worries, concerns, outright fears he had were squashed immediately by that recurring thought that, whatever the circumstances, Peter, the kid - _his_ kid - was alive.

MJ heaves a huge sigh, interrupting his stream of thoughts. Her arms are folded across her chest and she looks like she’d have very few problems with beating Tony up. Beside her, Ned’s wide eyes rove back and forth from his friend to Tony to behind him, where Steve and Rhodey are. Tony remembers Peter talking about how amazed Ned had been when he had found out about Peter being Spider-man and being on a first name basis with some of the avengers. The guy must be amazed right now, even if the circumstances are probably far from ideal for him.

“I was coming out of class to go to the bathroom,” MJ begins. Her eyes haven’t left his face since they sat down. “There was a kid standing at the end of the hall by one of the lockers. He was wearing a maroon hoodie and baseball cap and I thought it was really weird, you know, ‘cause everyone should be taking their finals. I shut the door and that’s when he turned to look at me.”

“You’re sure it was him?” Tony asks, because the universe is still a bitch at heart and most - _all_ , really - of this feels too good to be true.

MJ looks like she’s about to slap him. The scratches on her face stand out an angry red color. “Yes, I’m sure. It was him.”

Tony nods, convinced mainly because he so desperately wants to be. “Okay. Then what?”

Another heaving sigh. “I said his name twice. I asked if it was him.”

“Did he say anything?”

A look passes her face, tight and angry looking. “No. He just ran. Then the thing - the bomb he planted - exploded, and the next thing I remember was Ned standing over me. And that’s it.” She gives him another hard look. “If you make me explain it again I swear to god -”

He holds up his hands in surrender. _Alive. He’s alive._ “Nope. All good here.”

Someone clears his throat behind him. He grits his teeth instinctively. _Steve_.

“Yes, Otter Pop?”

A snort from Rhodey. A sort of amazed smile crosses Ned’s face, like he didn’t think it was humanly possible for someone to make a joke at Captain America's expense.

“Can I have a word, Tony?”

He weighs his options. On one hand, Steve is rarely ever the bearer of good news. Anything that comes out of his mouth, especially something he wants to say in private, probably won’t do anything to improve his mood. On the other hand, now that he’s exhausted the number of times he can make MJ tell and retell, he’s not sure what to do with the two teenagers. It doesn’t help matters that they’re both staring at him, Ned with hope, MJ with a guarded sort of expectation. They’re waiting for him to do something.

Which is a little problematic, because his brain is too full of the endless loop of _Peter_ and _here_ and _alive_ to so much as hold a conversation, much less come up with a plan to get the kid back.

And still - _still_ \- there’s the snag. The very large, _very_ problematic snag in the plan. Peter was, apparently, the cause of the bombing. Whether or not it was a conscious choice he had made - and Tony very much believes it was not; the kid just _wouldn’t_ do that - it was still him who planted the bomb, according to MJ. And it seems a bit bizarre to cherry pick the parts of the girl’s story that he likes - notably the whole _Peter being alive_ bit - while disregarding the one’s he doesn’t like. So, Peter is alive. Peter is also a serial bomber who has cost not only the District of New York, but likely a lot of places in Greece, Russia, and Hungary a _lot_ of mine, by the looks of it

Because he had ran some tests on the bomb site. The place where it had been put - a hidden compartment underneath a row of lockers - was more than a little destroyed, but the early responders had managed to get some rubble samples and, though the results were still preliminary, they had tested positive for signs of Vibranium reactions.

The same results that had popped up in Greece. And Russia. And Hungary, now. Same results, almost the _exact_ same concentration of Vibranium. Consistency suggested they were the same type of bomb being placed by the same person. And all signs pointed to Peter Parker.

Which was, you know, a fucking disaster in Tony’s opinion. Because he _knows_ Peter would never do something like this. Never. It’s completely out of the question. So that leaves a few options, none of which make the tight knot in Tony’s stomach feel any better. One, the kid is being forced to do this, coerced by something or someone probably very awful. Or two, the kid isn’t _aware_ he’s doing this. He’s honestly not sure which one is worse.

“Tony?” Steve’s voice cuts through his thoughts, dragging him away from possibilities and Peter and the loop of _he’s alive_ and back into the sitting room in the Avengers Tower. Everyone is looking expectantly at him.

He sighs. He’s going to have to talk to Steve at some point. Might as well do it now before his hopes crash and the hole in his chest starts opening again and he can still stomach Steve being - well, _Steve._

“Alright, fine,” he says, standing up. He’s amazed he managed to say sitting for that long; it feels like there’s ants crawling around all over him.

MJ gives him an offended look and Ned’s eyebrows shoot up. “What about us?” he asks, voice uncertain  

Tony frowns. God, he does _not_ have enough brain space for this right now. “Go home,” he says. It sounds more like a question than he intended.

MJ doesn’t seem to like it very much. “I want to help.”

“Me too,” Ned cuts in, eyes wide. “I mean - if that’s okay with you, Mr. Stark, sir.”

He’s shaking his head before they’ve even finished speaking. “Nope. Nope, none of that. We - no, not you, _we -”_ He gestures to himself, Steve, Rhodey, and Natasha. “- will work this out, okay? And we’ll keep you posted, in the loop, whatever. But - this is dangerous. I’m not going to put some kids at risk from one of their friends toting highly destructive bombs around and detonating them where he pleases, okay?”

“We’re not kids, Mr. Stark,” says Ned. “We - we’re sixteen, _seventeen_. Peter’s our friend, we want to help him.”

His voice is quiet and Tony’s heart twists just a little. He hates how much the guy sounds like Peter. He _hates_ it.

“No,” Tony says again. He feels like a broken record. “I appreciate you guys caring - really, I do - but no. I can’t have anything happening to you guys. Peter would gut me in a heartbeat.”

He wouldn’t, he’s way too nice to do that, but it has the desired effect - quelling Peter’s friends’ protests. They don’t look happy about it, but it’s not like Tony expected them to be. He can’t imagine he would he either, if Pepper or Rhodey told him to back down from looking for the kid.

Hell, he’d probably gut _them_. In spirit, at least.

“I’ll have Hapoy drive you guys home, okay?” he says, moving towards the window where Steve is waiting. “Don’t worry about this - we’ve got it all under control. Peter will be back in no time, and we’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

And that’s that. Rhodey escorts the two teenagers out of the room and Tony is left with a mildly concerned-looking Steve. He sighs. _Buzzkill_.

“Why the long face, Capsicle?”

Steve sighs, moving around the couch and taking a seat on the edge of one of the arms. “Tony -” he begins and Tony immediately holds up a hand to stop him.

“Please,” he says, shutting his eyes for a moment. “Please don’t _Tony_ me. You know it stresses me out.”

Steve’s lips twitch up. “Alright.”

“So.” He takes a seat on the couch Steve is perched on. “You wanted to talk?” He very much hopes he doesn’t anymore.

“Yes.” Steve blinks, long and slow. His face is tense. “I’m worried about the validity of Michelle’s information.”

“MJ,” Tony corrects, annoyance already bubbling up in his stomach. “And what - why? You think she’s lying, or something?”

“Not at all. I - look, _Tony_ \- sorry - we saw the kid die. We _saw_ it. His vitals cut out completely. No brain activity, no pulse, no heartbeat - nothing. I don’t think there’s a way to fake that, and -”

“You don’t know that.” _Fuck Steve_ , Tony thinks at the same time as _he’s alive_ repeats again. But the confidence behind it wavers, just a little.

“Okay, fine. That could be faked, but he was _shot_. In the back of the head. Three times. How on earth could he survive that?”

“I don’t know, Steve,” he snaps, standing up suddenly. He needs to move. He needs to get out of here and _find Peter._ “He has super-healing -”

“You really think that could work with three _headshots?”_

“Maybe it wasn’t him!” Tony barely keeps his voice below a yell and doubt is starting to crawl it’s way out of his chest and up into his voice. “Maybe it was a fake -”

“He talked,” Steve says gently, so gently, and Tony _hates_ that everything he’s saying can’t be disproven. “Tony, you heard him. That was _Peter_ saying that - do you not remember?”

And that’s the final straw. It takes every ounce of willpower he has in his body to not reach across the couch and shove Steve. Or kick him in the mouth.

Because of _course_ he remembers - how on earth could Steve think he had somehow forgotten the final things the kid had said to him. He’s - of _course_ he fucking does. The very notion that he doesn’t makes him want to scream because it’s been that conversation that’s haunted his nightmares the most, that conversation that’s played endlessly in the corner of his mind like some sick nursery rhyme, that conversation that he’s though about over and over and _over_ again, memorizing the words and actions and expressions until he could see it perfectly in the back of his head whenever he closes his eyes. It had been born of masochism mixed with a burning guilt and self-hate. The feelings that he had caused the kid’s death, he had failed him and so he must be punsihed, must be forced to relive his failure every single time he closed his eyes

He breathes out hard, forcing an exhale through what feels like a mouthful of cotton balls. He focuses on Steve - blue eyes, dark jacket, clean shaven, blonde hair, worried, _worried_ \- tries to hone in on his surroundings, tries to ignore the explosion brewing in his chest, the guilt and anger and fear threatening to overtake him. He breathes. He breathes again.

 _Peter could still be dead_.

The thought is like a shot, like a bullet in the back of his head just like Peter and he breathes again but the air doesn’t come and suddenly the walls of the room dissolve and he’s not there anymore; he’s in another room with his eyes glued to a monitor and people too close to him, breathing too hard, and he’s scared, he’s so _scared_ , and -

_“Any final messages, kid?”_

_The noise of a boot connecting with a rincage rung, loud and sickening, throughout the room. Tony leaned forward. His face almost touched the glass and if he breathed hard enough, a circle of fog would probably appear on the glass. But he didn’t breathe because he couldn’t. Because they had found Peter - the days and days of sleeplessness and searching had paid off -_ finally.

_Yeah, they had found Peter._

_And now he was about to be killed._

_He’s not sure when he realized it. Maybe it was when the footage started rolling, maybe it was when the men clad in black and armed visibly to the teeth had let go of the restraints, dropping the kid to the ground. Maybe it was when Peter_ finally _looked up, right into the camera, and all Tony could see in his eyes was pain and fear and a terrifying, utterly_ terrifying _sort of acceptance in his eyes._

_Peter was about to die. Peter was about to die._

_“Fucking speak when I talk to you.” Another kick. Behind him, someone gasped audibly. Tony didn’t care, he didn’t care. All he cared about was half-lying, half-sitting on a dirt floor god-knows where with blood running into his eyes, seconds away from being killed. “Any last words?”_

_“T-Tony…” The kid’s voice was raspy and harsh, like metal grating on metal and it was the first time he had ever called Tony by his first name and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, Peter was going to_ die _and he couldn’t - he fucking couldn’t - “Tony, hi, h-hey - Mr - Mr. Stark?”_

_He nodded. The kid couldn’t see him. That much had been made clear earlier._

_“Mr. A-stark, hey…” A cough. Tony saw dark flecks on the sand and the back of his eyes_ burned _and Peter was going to_ die _and he couldn’t save him. “Hi - I - I want to - want to tell you that I - I think -”_ Cough _. Tony’s nails dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood. “Sorry. Sorry - I’m so - I’m sorry, I couldn’t - I can’t - I’m sorry, Tony.”_

 _He sounded broken. Broken and scared and hurt and the screen blurred as Tony’s eyes welled up and that was his_ kid _, that was his fucking kid there and he was going to die and Tony couldn’t fucking_ help.

_“I’m sorry - T-tony, I know you’re g-going to - I know you think this is y-your fault and it - not, its not, you - no, it’s not - you - you did e-everything you c-could and I’m - grateful, I’m so grateful and you - you - I love you, Mr. Stark? Mr - yeah - I love you. I l-love you and I’m sorry and - May - take care of - yeah - and you, please - I love you -”_

_The shots rung out. Three of them. The kid stopped mid-sentence, whole body going slack. His head hit the dirt with a dull_ thud _. The area around him darkened._

_The universe shattered._

_The world stopped breathing. He stopped breathing._

_“Vitals,” was all he could get out. He wasn’t even conscious of saying it._

_“Nothing, sir.” Fridays voice was filled with something heavy and dark and Tony couldn’t breathe - he couldn’t - Peter -_ Peter -

_He was dead._

_Peter was dead._

_Peter was shot and killed and he was dead._

_Tony was aware of standing up. He could hear someone, voices, sobbing, noise, too much, it was all too much - Peter was_ dead - _Peter was dead._

_Just like that. Just like that the universe snapped in half. Shattered. The pieces were everywhere. Everything stopped. Everything stopped because Peter was dead, Peter had jut died._

_And, amidst the noise and tears and voices and hole opening up in his chest and the feeling of_ _someone cracking his rib cage open and ripping his heart out, Tony realized with a sort of sick slowness that he would never,_ ever _be happy again._

_Then he passed out._

“Tony? Tony!”

He flinches back, Steve’s hand shooting off his shoulder. He tastes iron and something sour in the back of his mouth. A gunshot echoes around his head, bouncing back and forth and Peter _died._ He knows he had died. He had seen it happen, felt the loss like a limb had just been removed.

And Steve was right. If all that had happened, how the _fuck_ could he be back? He had _died._

“You’re right,” he says, shifting instinctively away from Steve, crawling somewhere deep inside himself. “You’re - you’re fucking right, it doesn’t make any sense, okay? But - look - I trust those kids -”

“I do too,” Steve interjects, voice so soft and gentle and Tony’s eyes sting. He blinks furiously. “I just want to be logical about this. It would be so much worse for you if you got your hopes up only to have them let down. I don’t want to see that happen to you.”

Selfishly speaking, he doesn’t want that either. And he hates that that’s how he thinks now. Selfishly. What’s best for _him_ , not what’s best for Peter.

Still, he shakes his head. “I can’t let this go, Steve. Not if there’s a chance - not if there’s hope - I gotta see it through, you know? I can’t give up on him. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”

He barely can as it is.

Steve sighs, relenting. “Then at least let us help. Me, Rhodey, Pepper, May, Bucky, Nat - whoever. Just someone. Don’t do this alone. Please.”

He nods before realizing Steve’s asking for a verbal confirmation.

A promise.

He’s not great at keeping those. What with the whole promising to keep Peter safe at whatever cost only to have him die. Yeah, not the best.

But maybe. The maybe is still there. The doubt too, the sinking feeling that MJ was wrong or he’s wrong or something is general is just _wrong_ and Peter’s still laying facedown in a bunker somewhere.  

But the maybe stays, despite it all.

And it’s all he needs to keep going.

“Okay,” he says, meeting Steve’s gaze. “We’ll do it toghether.”

The captain smiles, still right and strained-looking. But there’s something else there, something that Tony’s sure is reflecting from off him.

 _Hope_.

Because maybe. Just _maybe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back to another chapter that is three quarters of tony soliloquizing and being Sad! my speciality. sorry things aren’t Happening rn they will start happening very soon and it will be very good


	9. comply

“Mission report?”

“Objective completed.”

Everything feels slow and foggy and out of focus. It reminds him of being held underwater and reaching the point of no return - no more fighting, no more thrashing around. Just sitting there, watching the bubbles blur out of focus. Just slowly running out of oxygen.

He’s not sure why he knows what that feels like. He’s not sure if he wants to know why.

“Any sustained injuries?”

His head aches, but nothing physical, as far as he knows. A medic will check him over later, anyways.

“No, sir. I am fine.”

Sir nods. His face is expressionless. Completely different from the girl in the school. The contrast might’ve been comforting and familiar at one point, but now it just leaves the sour taste of fear in his mouth. Something isn’t right again. That girl - she _knew_ him. She shouldn’t have known him. But she did - she does. And it makes no sense, because it completely contradicts everything he knows about himself.

It’s been explained to him a few times - his origin story. How he became Number Three. He was found by Sir and his team several months back after he had been beaten nearly half to death and left for dead in a snowbank just outside the city. They had taken him back to their base in New York, nursed him back to health, and then began training him.

He remembered nothing of the alleged beating - or anything before, for the matter. It’s like his life just starts after that particular moment. Everything before it just - doesn’t exist. It’s distracting, Sir says. There is a price to pay for knowing too much about yourself, and that is a price he, as a weapon, could not afford.

Because that had been what the training was about - turning him into a weapon. He remembers it to some degree - bits and pieces, disjointed flashes, nothing more, really. They had done everything. Sparred, ran practice scenarios, done obstacle courses and surprise missions and late night drops into the woods where he was given nothing but a small bag and told to find his way out, knowing very well how bad it would be if he was a second too slow. They had done intelligence training, interrogation training, even _torture_ training. The torture training he remembered perfectly, to his detriment. One time he had been waterboarded for six hours. He hadn’t been able to talk or walk the next day. Another time he had been kept in isolation for an indefinite period of time - he had lost count after the eighth day. By the time he had been released, he could see people in the corners of his vision, screaming silently at him. It had been terrifying, all of it had been terrifying.

But there had been a _point_ , and that made it all manageable. He’s special - that’s what Sir says. He has powers - super healing, super speed, super strength - and he has to be trained to use them to the best of his ability. That was what Sir was doing - training him. Making him the best he could be.

Sir had always said that, because he was a weapon, though, he had to be kept a secret. People might try to hurt him, capture him, take him away from Sir and use him for their own wishes. That couldn’t happen under _any_ circumstance, says Sir, because he is too dangerous to be used by just _anybody_. And there was one group, one group in particular, that posed the biggest threat to him.

He knows them only by name. He’s never seen them, never even come _close_ to seeing them. They’re dangerous, evil, vicious people who would kill him on sight if given the chance. And Number Three’s main objective is to save himself and others like him from being hurt by them, to take the Avengers down - starting with one of their key players.

_Iron Man._

Out of all the things he has burned into his mind, the image of the Iron Man suit and mask is the one most clearly imprinted. He’s memorized every detail, every nut and bolt and stripe of paint on that suit. He can close his eyes and see it in the back of his vision, standing there like a photo’s been plastered across his eyes. His mission, should he ever see Iron Man, is to shoot on sight.

Simple and easy. His six bullet revolver he keeps in his bag should do the trick; ideally, he’d only need one. If that fails, there’s other options. Physical combat, stabbing, hell, even shoving the man off a building if that’s what it takes.

He doesn’t know who any of the Avengers are, least of all Iron Man. Sir has mentioned they all have real people identities, like the ones he sees around the cities he visits. He’s been told they lead normal lives - or at least pretend to do so. But that’s not important to his mission, apparently. Their real identities only muddy the waters, make it harder and more confusing for Number Three to carry out his job.

So Iron Man is just a mask, just a suit of armor. He is Number Three’s final mission, his end goal.

And now they’re in New York. Now they’re within walking distance of the building Iron Man and the rest of the Avengers are said to live in. Now they’re _close_.

He’s not sure how that makes him feel. On one hand, all he’s trained for is to finally destroy the Avengers. It’s all he knows. Being within reaching distance of his final goal is exhilarating; he’s _done_ it. He’s succeeded, just like Sir wants him to. He’s finally made him proud, of at least given him reason to he.

But on the other, there’s still that undercurrent of _something_ . It’s only been growing stronger recently, starting in Szeged and continuing on with each passing day. It’s confusing and frustrating, to say the least. He’s not used to functioning with this - _doubt_ surrounding him. It’s an ineffective quality to have; it makes him hesitant and puts him and the success of his missions at risk. The incident with the girl at Midtown should’ve been enough to snap him out of it, to show him how close he can come to failing when he pauses to listen to the _something_.

And yet it didn’t. The _something_ is still there, still hovering around the corners of his consciousness.

He should tell Sir. Sir can fix this - Sir can do anything. But he doesn’t. It’s not that he can’t - even worse, it’s that he doesn’t want to.

He may be a secret, but keeping them is beyond dangerous. He doesn’t need Sir to tell him that; he’s figured it out on his own over everything he can remember. One time he found an intriguing piece of rock on one of his missions and took it home with him. Sir found it in his backpack two weeks later. It was sharp and hard - flint, he thought at the time - and Sir had not been pleased. It had earned him the slice on his cheek he had seen in the bathroom. The one on his lip had come from him not telling Sir that he’d been up for three things straight because every time he had closed his eyes, nightmares of concrete and dust and blood and being trapped had filled his head and woken him in a cold sweat.

Still, he keeps the _something_ a secret. It’s futile. Sir will find out eventually. He always does.

“Do you remember what I always say your most important mission is?” Sir says suddenly, snapping him back to the present.

He jerks his head. “To take down the Avengers,” he recites. “Starting with their key player, Iron Man.”

Sir smiles. His eyes are unreadable. “Very good. Do you know where are now?”

He nods again. “New York, sir. Precise location unknown.”

Another smile. Number Three holds back a shiver. “Precise location is irrelevant. These past months, I have had you complete a lot of missions for me. Do you remember what they were?”

Another nod. “Yes, sir. Retrieving reactor cores and decimating the sites. I performed operations in Greece, Russia, and Hungary. My most recent mission to retrieve a suit from a local high school. The reason for that mission was not specified, sir.”

Sir nods back. “Yes. That was just tying up loose ends, cleaning up some - _things_. But anyways, back to your most important mission.”

“The Avengers.”

“The Avengers,” Sir echoes. “What can you tell me about the Avengers, Number Three?”

He pauses for a second, collects all the information he has stored in his brain about them and lays it out for him to explain. “There are six core members - Iron Man, Captain America, Black Widow, Hawkeye, Thor, and the Hulk. Iron Man was a weapons manufacturer turned vigilante following a kidnapping in Afghanistan. Captain America was a World War II soldier injected with a serum made by notes scientist Howard Stark that gave him almost superhuman abilities in regards to traits such as strength, speed, and endurance. Black Widow was trained as a spy by an organization in Russia, name unknown. She also worked as an operative for SHIELD, working closely with Iron Man. Hawkeye is another SHIELD operative and skilled marksman. Thor is a god gifted with extreme powers. The Hulk is a genetically modified being who was created when accidentally exposed to near-fatal levels of gamma radiation following an experiment designed to recreate Howard Stark’s serum. There are also other operatives and individuals who are not, technically speaking, Avengers but work closely with them. This includes individuals such as War Machine, the Falcon, Sgt.  James Barnes, Ant Man, the Black Panther, Scarlet Witch, and Spider-man - now deceased. They operate out of two locations - the Avengers Tower in New York City, and the Avengers Complex in upstate New York.”

Sir beams. “Very good. You remember well.”

Number Three nods. He doesn’t. That’s not the point, though.

“What can you tell me about the nature of the Avengers?”

Now this one is one he’ll never forget. It’s stuck in his brain, right up there with the image of the Iron Man mask. “They are destructive and selfish by nature, choosing to preserve their own good image and public approval levels over the safety of their fellow citizens. They have been responsible for massive amounts of property damage and life loss, notably following events in New York and Sokovia and have done a poor job of providing proper relief for everyone. They remain unchecked by any government organization, even despite the fact that they have genetically enhanced individuals operating within their ranks. This means their control and shut down is left in the hands of individuals such as me.”

“Individuals such as you,”

Another nod. “Yes, sir.”

“So, how does that relate to your primary objective in this upcoming mission?”

 _Upcoming mission._ It’s finally happening. “My objective is to start with one of the key figures of the Avengers - Iron Man. He is arguably one of the most destructive members of the team, with his precious endeavors as a weapons manufacture killing thousands of soldiers needlessly. His behavior of continual narcissism, selfishness, and careless endangerment of other people’s lives makes him a primary target.”

“What is the rule?”

He swallows before speaking. His mouth is dry. “Shoot on sight.”

Sir’s grin is broad and cold. “Exactly. Good recap, Number Three.”

He swallows again. It’s like a mouthful of sand. “Thank you, sir.”

Sir claps his hands, the noise echoing around the small room they’re in. It’s the same one he did interrogation training in. He recognizes the water stains on the walls and the cracks in the ceiling he had spent hours staring at. He stands up and Number Three does too, on instinct.

“We’ll do another wipe now. Just as a precaution. Then we’ll drop you off at the site and your mission will commence. Understood?”

He pauses. “The mission is starting today?”

Sir’s gaze is freezing. “Yes, soldier. Your mission starts today.”

“When does it finish?”

A stupid question. _Stupid_. He half-tenses, expecting a backhand of sorts.

It doesn’t come. Just a cold, annoyed glance. “Whenever you finish it. Or whenever it finishes you. Understood?”

He swallows again. It does nothing. For the first time in as long as he can remember, he feels fear. “Understood,” he echoes, forcibly keeping his voice steady. “Ready to comply.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some nice backstory-ish on our guy. also since the cat’s now Officially out of the bag and i can’t accidentally spoil my own story, peter goes by number three bc apparently that is tom holland’s favorite number! the more you know


	10. shot

“Remind me, why did you have to come again?”

“Because Steve thinks you’re going to get killed if you go alone.”

Tony huffs, staring out the window. “Yeah, well, Steve also thinks ‘meme’ is pronounced ‘mee-mee,’ so I’m not sure if he’s exactly a fountain of knowledge,”

Barnes’s hands spin the wheel as they round a corner and move to a back alley. “It’s not?” he murmurs. Tony resists the urge to slam his head into the dashboard.

“God, you two are the worst. It’s like talking to a bunch of a hundred year olds - literally. No wonder you guys are in love - you’re made for each other.”

Barnes’s cheeks go a little pink. “We’re not in love.”

“Sure.” He rolls his eyes. “Heart eyes aren’t lost on me, Barnes.”

Barnes has now gone a satisfying shade of red. They emerge back onto the main street and stop at a light. “It’s Bucky,” he grunts. “Barnes is the other guy. And where are we going again?”

Tony quirks an eyebrow at the topic change but says nothing. Whatever. Barnes - _Bucky_ \- can have his weird little romance-not-romance with Steve as far as he cares, as long as he never has to see them do anything. He’d probably gouge his eyes out of he did.

Besides, he has more important things to focus on. Like _Peter._

“We’re going to the garage down this street. Sort of. Place is weird, I’ll direct you.” he directed, pointing with his finger. Above them, the light goes green and they start up again. “I know GPSs and technology can confuse old people like you.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, the corners of his lips twitching a little. “Very funny,” he says dryly. “And why are we going to this garage?”

“Steve didn’t say?”

Bucky shakes his head. “He didn’t explain what you were doing. Just told me to go with you and make sure you didn’t get killed, or whatever.”

Tony smirks, despite himself.  “Trouble in paradise?”

“Stark, I swear to fucking god -”

“Okay, okay,” he holds up his hands, full on grinning. “I did a security camera check to see what cars had driven past back entrance of the school. There’s one in particular I was watching - a basement door at the very back of the school. I checked a floorplan of the building and, if what MJ said about how Peter came and went was true, it’d be the most logical place for him to enter. The street it leads to is quiet, tucked away. A car could get in and get out of there unnoticed.”

“And? Did one?”

Tony smiles a little. “Nope. There’s a security camera that the school installed there a while ago. Apparently kids were sneaking out to, like, do crack or whatever, and the school wanted to keep an eye on it. There were a handful of cars but one in particular I want to check out.”

“What was the ID?”

“That’s just the thing - take a left here -” He jerks his hand towards another side street. “No ID. No license plate.”

Bucky sighs audibly. “Okay, that’s not ideal. How do you know where to go?”

Tony’s smile widens. It had been shockingly easy to trace the beat up-looking van that had pulled up in the alley at 10:45, sharp. A figure had stepped out. Their face had been obscured by a baseball cap and hoodie, but the clothes matched MJ’s description perfectly. The timing, too - and that even fit with the actual event. The license plate had been a little bit of an issue, and for a moment Tony had almost given up - how on earth was he supposed to trace an ID-less van? - but he had been saved by the simple narcissism of petty criminals. A certain petty criminal by the name of -

“Mark McGregor,” he announces, rubbing his hands together. “Small time con artist operating in New York. We - the Avengers - picked him up a couple of years back for involvement in this huge arms deal - very convoluted, very expensive. But anyways, he’s just gotten out and records say he’s now operating some car dealership in southern Queens.”

“Let me guess.” Bucky’s voice is dry. “This dealership specializes in sketchy cars without identifiers. For people who are looking for that type of stuff, obviously .”

Tony raps the window with a knuckle empathetically. “Bingo.”

“Okay,” says Bucky again, brows furrowed. They stop at another light. The car next to them is blasting music, something heavy and deep and bass-boosted and Tony’s heart starts beating in time with the music, hard and fast. They’re close. They’re _so_ close. “That doesn’t explain how you know the car came from him, though.”

Now to the narcissism. God, he loves petty criminals sometimes. “Well, one of the reasons we were able to link McGregor to all the weapons was because he stamped them. Some weird circle thing with an hourglass inside it - I think? - and some runes floating around the outside. Didn’t mean anything, as far as we could tell, but the guy definitely has an affinity for it. Marks nearly everything he owns with it.”

Bucky full-on grins. “Including his cars.”

Tony grins back. “Including his cars.” He stabs a finger at another back street. “He’s down there - take a right up at the next intersection.”

Bucky nods, spinning the wheel. They drive in silence for a few seconds. Anticipation courses through Tony so strongly he’s half-convinced that he might actually burst at the seams and explode all over the inside of the cars. After endless days and weeks and months of searching and waiting and hoping and finally being convinced that maybe there _wasn’t_ anything to find, maybe Peter really had died, they had found something. A lead. A _person_ . They had found hope. Peter was in New York - probably still is - and they’re _this_ close to finding him.

Peter. _His kid._ His kid is coming home.

“Here?” Bucky grunts, snapping him out of his thoughts. He wipes the grin he knows has formed off his face and nods. Business time. They’re not over the mountain yet. McGregor had been difficult and downright annoying the last time they had talked, and something told Tony the guy probably hadn’t had a whole come-to-Jesus moment while rotting away in a state prison.

They pull up just outside the shop. The exterior is battered and coated with white paint that’s chipping and peeling in a hundred different places. The windows are small and grimy and plastered with fading photos of cars - McGregor's, probably. The sign on the door reads ‘open at all hours’ in shaky lettering.

Bucky’s tilts his head up, squinting through the sunlight. “Al’s Automobiles?” he reads, eyebrows drawing together. “Thought you said this guy’s name was Mark?”

Tony squints at the door again. Underneath the first sign is another, smaller, even dirtier one that reads ‘my name is Mark not Al thank you.’ Tony rolls his eyes and taps the sign with a finger. Bucky drops his gaze, pauses for a second, and then snorts.

“Classy,” he says.

Tony draws a steeling breath. McGregor is a lot of things, but a threat is not one of them. No reason to be scared, no reason to worry. The whole exchange will take twenty minutes - at most. He - and Bucky - are in charge here, and they have to find Peter. They _have_ to find Peter.

Without another word, Tony twists the doorknob and throws the door open. The inside of the shop is cluttered and just as grimy-looking as the outside. He stands in the doorway, Bucky at his shoulder, eyes roving around the room. He passes stacks of newspapers, letters, tiny toy cars, packs of cigarettes, loose dollar bills, an empty vodka bottle, a Hooters Cafe calendar, and the cash register before finally picking out what he’s looking for.

A head of thick brown hair poking out from just behind a tower of shoeboxes labeled ‘fragile - do not touch!!!’ He strides over and shoves them out of the way. They hit the ground with a soft thud and the head of hair gives a little groan.

“Those were my grandmother’s,” it whines, and McGregor emerges, looking petulant. He’s almost the same as Tony rememberers - dark hair, beady eyes, permanently downtrodden expression. Except it’s not downtrodden now. McGregor takes one look at the men facing him and his eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up into his rat’s nest of hair. He looks terrified.

“M-Mr. Stark!” he stammers, hands immediately jumping to the piles of papers on the table, shuffling them around like it’s going to do anything to hide them. “Wow - wow, uh, so - uh, great to see you? You - you didn’t say you were comi -”

“This looks pretty overdue, Mark,” Tony remarks, fishing out a bank statement from the pile the man has been trying to hide. The due date on it reads three weeks ago.

McGregor’s ears burn a bright red as he snatches the statement from Tony’s outstretched hand. He smirks.

“I - okay, I was gonna get to to it but then - there was a thing, and - okay, never mind. You - you, uh - why are you here?”

“Not to arrest you for tax evasion, don’t worry,” Tony says, rolling his eyes and stuffing the paper out of sight. “A little bird told me you’d opened up this car dealership, and I thought my friend and I should drop by and say hello.”

McGregor’s ears are still red, but the rest of his face has gone a sort of off-while color. The combination is interesting, to say the least. “A - which bird might that be?”

“The US Government,” he says, turning over a file resting atop yet another stack of shoeboxes with writing scrawled all over it. “You spelt ‘dangerous’ wrong.”

McGregor blanches. Bucky snorts.

“Just a census, by the way.” Tony sets the folder down and turns to face the man, crossing his arms. “No need to panic, your little, ah, _operation_ you have going on here is safe with us.”

McGregor exhales audibly. “Oh.”

“Yeah. But it is the aforementioned operation I’d like to discuss with you, if that’s alright?”

He makes sure to leave very little room for disagreement in his tone. McGregor catches on easily, nodding jerkily and stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Excellent. I’ll give you what we know and you call fill in the details. Like a cross referencing type thing, okay? Okay. So, we know that a vehicle owned by your company was used to transport the man responsible for the bombing at Midtown High yesterday. You were in charge of providing the getaway car. We happen to be looking for that guy, you know, not great to have a serial bomber running around New York blowing up high schools. Bad press, to say the least. You come in here, now, because you have information that we want. I’m thinking we can do a little trade-off.”

McGregor swallows and shifts in his chair. “And what do I get out of the - this, uh, trade off?”

Tony flashes a tight-lipped smile in his direction “We don’t call the cops on your ass and have you put away for another decade.”

“Ah.” The man nods slowly. “You know, Tony - uh, Mr. Stark, I’d _love_ to help, really, but - god, you know - client confidentiality, right? Can’t, uh, can’t go around giving myself a - a bad name, can I?”

“You run a car dealership for criminals out of a shack that’s still called ‘Al’s Automobiles,’” Bucky intones from his place by the door. He looks supremely unamused, dark eyes hard as flint. “Trust me, your name is already way beyond help.”

Tony jerks his thumb at him. “What he said. I really want this to be easy, Mark, but if you’re going to make it hard, then so be it. Bucky, how long would it take the cops to get here?”

Bucky feigns a concentrated face. “Oh, I dunno, five minutes? Give or take a minute or so. Traffic is always bad if the farmers’ market is open.”

“True, true. They do have great sandwiches, though.”

“Yeah, Steve says. I’ve been meaning to go since I got back, but I haven’t got the chance.”

“We could go after this? I actually missed breakfast today and I can definitely eat.”

“Sounds like a plan. Lemme just call the station, seeing as our friend Mark doesn’t seem like he’s going to play nice -”

Behind them, McGregor flails his hands about and Tony smirks, internally this time. It’s almost too easy with this guy.

“You don’t understand,” he said, almost pleading. “I don’t keep records - why - why would I? Guys who come here don’t want that - they’re looking for _anonymity!_ You know, no traces, shi - stuff like that!”

“Was that what the guy from Midtown wanted?” Tony demands, leaning his elbows against the table. McGregor leans back, looking a little terrified. Tony can see sweat beading on the man’s forehead.

“Yeah, of course - signed his name as -”

“Wait a minute, you don’t keep shit on the people who rent your cars but you make them _sign_ _their names_ when they get one?”

McGregor winces a little. “It’s formality. They like it because it - it feels ethical, or something - I don’t know -”

 _“Ethical?”_ Tony echoes. “The guy at Midtown killed _twenty eight people._ Dozens more are hurt and you want to talk about _ethics_ to me?”

 _Peter_ , his brain supplies. _Peter killed twenty eight people_. He shoves that thought away. They have to find him, figure out what’s going on. They can deal with all the legalities lager.

Still, the voice persists. _Peter is not a murderer,_ it reminds him. _Peter has never been a murderer._ He grits his teeth. Like this is _news_ to him. The kid’s a fucking saint. Killing a fly would be out of character for him. Killing twenty eight human beings is just - it’s impossible, especially when the human beings in question are people he knows and, arguably enough, _likes_ . The kid would never. _Never_.

“I don’t know - I’m not the guys doing the stuff,” McGregor carries on. “Anyways the guy signed his name as Parker Peterson -”

“Excuse me, _what?”_ Bucky snaps. He takes a step forward. Tony’s heart freezes for a second. _Shit._

McGregor’s eyes jump back and forth between the two of them. An air of hopelessness is starting to form around the guy. “Parker - Parker Peterson? Seemed a little fake, but they all are, really. And besides -”

Tony slams a hand down on the tabletop, cutting him off. His whole body is buzzing with a heady combination of anticipation and outright fear and he needs something - _anything_ \- from McGregor. This trip _cannot_ end with just the knowledge that, whoever is doing this, is _really_ trying to fuck with Tony. “I’m going to ask you one more time, Mark, and if I don’t like your response, I’m going to call the police, okay?”

A nod. Jerky and scared.

“Do you know what the person who ordered the vehicle looked like? Do you have any - _any_ \- records on him? Think very carefully before you speak, please. I know you have a brain, Mark. _Use it.”_

He does, seemingly. His face scrunches up in a look of abject confusion and worry and Tony can see the guy’s hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. Then the visible tension building up in McGregor releases in the form of a huge sigh that ruffles Tony’s hair a little. He winces. Next time he stops by, he’s going to bring the guy a pack of Tic Tacs.

“I have - there’s a security camera that picks up - faces, you know,” he mumbles, looking defeated. _Yes,_ Tony screams silently, _fucking finally._ “I - I got robbed a little while ago and - okay, whatever. I’ll pull it up for you. You’re looking for Parker Peterson, right?”

Tony nods. _Yes._

“Uh...Here. This was the guy.”

McGregor shifts his computer monitor. The picture is grainy and black and white and for a split second Tony’s back in the Tower, watching footage of the same quality of a boy and a bed frame and too much blood. He shakes his head, tugging his glasses out of his pocket. No time. Not when they’re close, _so_ close.

“What - what are you, uh -”

“I’m uploading the footage to my own software,” he says, plugging the glasses into the side of the computer. He taps a few things, waits for the green bar on McGregor’s ancient hunk of wires and metal to fill, and then unplugs them. He slips them on and taps the side, waking up his own system. “I need a facial scan done and I can’t do it by eye. Also, your footage quality sucks.”

McGregor’s face falls. He starts to say something, but Tony ignores it, turning away and tapping the side of his glasses again.

“Fri, you with me?” he mutters. Buck comes up beside him, pausing at his shoulder. His eyes are intent.

There’s a crackle, and then - “Yes, sir. I notice you have uploaded a video file to my database. Would you like me to open it?”

“Yes. Run a scan on the guy by the door. The one who isn’t Mr. McGregor over here.”

“Right away, sir.”

There’s a pause as the gentle whirring of Friday’s scan fills his ears. He focuses his gaze somewhere near the corner of the room. They’re closer than they’ve ever been in the last six months to finding out who has Peter, closer than ever to getting them back. And to think only a few days ago he was almost ready to give up, to bury the kid and try and scrape his life back into the shape of normality. His stomach burns with anger; how could he have been so stupid? And so _selfish?_

He pushes that down. There’s always time for self-hate, but the time is not now. He has to focus. Get Peter back, and _then_ he can pick up the familiar track of guilt and self-directed anger.

The endlessly persistent voice in the back of his head reminds him that it probably won’t be so simple. There’s still the fact that Peter is likely responsible for all the recent bombings, hovering over him like some sort of unwieldy spectre. It doesn’t make sense - it just doesn’t make sense. Maybe it could’ve been him acting of his own accord if it was just the ones in Europe, where very few people got hurt. But the Midtown bombing skewers everything because the Peter Tony lmows would never, _ever_ willingly harm his friends. He’d rather be killed - Tony’s _heard_ him say shit like that before. The only _possible_ way explaination is that - well, it’s just not Peter doing it.

But it is. It _has_ to be _._ Between MJ’s story and the times matching up and now this _Parker Peterson_ guy, there’s no way Peter isn’t somehow wrapped up in this whole mess. It’s him. It has to be.

There’s the gray area, the little gap Tony - and everyone else too, likely - has been dancing around. It’s undeniably Peter doing these things in the physical sense - _it has to be, it_ has _to_ be - but that doesn’t mean it has to be him in the mental sense. They all remember the Winter Soldier, after all. The Bucky Barnes Tony knows - and, with some verbal pushback, loves - wouldn’t dream of doing the things he did when he was under the control of HYDRA, but the Winter Soldier never seemed to blink twice. And technology had only advanced since then. There was no saying that the same thing couldn’t have happened to Peter. It didn’t even have to be a HYDRA-run operation this time. It could be anyone controlling his kid, turning him into a cold, emotionless killing machine.

Tony tries to reject that possibility in its entirety. Just the thought of Peter becoming anything like the Winter Soldier makes him want to vomit. It’s terrifying, utterly _terrifying_ to think that all the humanity, all that inherent _goodness_ in the kid that he so loves could be replaced with cold nothingness like that.

Peter dying is - was - indescribably awful. But Peter losing all the things that make him - well, Peter? Tony can’t even wrap his head around that. It can’t be - it _can’t._ He - no. Peter is Peter - loving and gentle and compassionate and full to bursting with feeling . He _has_ to be.

 _It’s the most logical option_ , the voice reminds him and he’s saved from another progression into vague panic and guilt by Friday’s re-emerging voice.

“I have ran the scan, sir.” There’s a weird hesitance to how he speaks that makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

“Yeah, and?”

“Sir, the man who rented the vehicle suspected to be used in the Midtown Tech High School bolbings is Adrian Toomes.”

_Shit._

_Fucking_ shit.

“No,” he says, because that’s totally going to change something. Friday is never wrong - he _knows_ this, he fucking _built_ her, for god’s sake - but no. _No_ . It cannot - _cannot_ be Toomes pulling this shit. It _can’t._

“I’m sorry, sir,” Friday responds, and she sounds genuinely guilty. “It is a complete match.”

“He’s - no.” Tony shakes his head, panic starting to rise in his chest. _No._ “It can’t be. He’s in fucking _prison.”_

“It appears not. Of course, the individual could be using a replica of Adrian Toomes’s face on his own - like a mask - but the chances are unlikely.”

Homecoming had been a debacle on a galactic scale. Between his and Peter’s fight on the rooftop post-Staten Island Ferry ness, and the subsequent screaming match they’d had in the car, to the kid nearly getting killed in a plane crash, it had been an experience Tony would’ve loved to never have to deal with again. He remembered Toomes perfectly - the guy had been hell bent on killing Peter after he had gotten just a little too involved. They had talked during the trial - one on one - and the conversation had left him feeling cold on the inside for days after.

 _“That fucking pipsqueak took everything from me,”_ Toomes had said. _“You think this is the end? You think he can land me in prison for 40 years and just walk away?_ Fuck _no. I’m coming for him, Stark, and he’s going to be damn sorry he ever stuck his stupid little nose in my business when I catch him.”_

Melodramatic and empty - or so he had thought. But even then, when he had been convinced Toomes was dealt with for good, the menace dripping from the man’s voice had given his threats a scarily _real_ connotation. Tony had been afraid - not for himself but for Peter. He had no doubt in his mind - and still doesn’t to this day - that Toomes had meant what he said. If he got out - there would be hell to pay for Peter Parker.  

Which, apparently, was happening right now. He balled his fists and exhaled forcefully. He couldn’t panic. Panicking wouldn’t help the kid. Panicking wouldn’t help anything. He can fix this, he can get Toomes out of the picture again. They had done it once already. He’s nothing but a crank with an axe to grind - obnoxious, but perfectly manageable.

 _Liar,_ the voice sneers. _Cranks don’t brainwash people and have them kill twenty eight teenagers._ Then, the helpful addition of _this is all your fault, Stark._

It is, completely is, and it makes Tony feel sick just thinking about it, but he doesn’t have time to wallow in self hate. _Later_ , he tells the voice, and whips of his glasses, turning back to McGregor and Bucky.

“What’s going on, Tony?” Bucky’s voice is soft and confused. He knows something’s up.

He waves a hand. _Later_. “Where’s this car now?” he snaps in McGregor’s direction.

Maybe it’s his tone or maybe it’s the fear on his face that Tony is sure is showing - _weak, so fucking weak_ \- because there’s none of the man’s usual waffling. He blinks once and swallows.

“I have trackers in the cars - can see where they are, if they’re being stolen, stuff like that. Peterson is -” There’s some clicking and a drawn out hum from McGregor before he straightens back up, looking at Tony. “- by the Avengers Tower. A block south.”

 _Fuck_ . _Fuck._

“Bucky,” he snaps, turning on his heel and heading for the door.

“What about the cops?” McGregor calls after them. Tony flips him off and barges through the door and out into the street.

They start the car up and take off, skidding on the concrete as they round a corner. _Gonna get a ticket,_ Tony half-thinks. The other half of him is numb with a sick anticipation. _Peter’s going to blow up the Avengers Tower. Toomes is going to make Peter blow up the Avengers Tower._

“What’s going on?” Bucky asks, breaking the silence.

He swallows. Mouth of dust. _Breathe_ , something inside him commands. _Peter_ , is all he can offer up. _Peter._

“Adrian Toomes - the Vulture,” he says. His voice is shaky. _Weak_. Sounds like Howard this time, always does. “Before you came - you were in Wakanda still, I think. He - there was a whole mess - arms bust, Chitauri cores, it was bad. Ended with the guy basically trying to flatten Peter with a plane after dropping a parking garage on him. Kid was - it fucked him up. Nightmares, panic - whatever. Point is, Toomes should be doing 40 years. But he’s not. It was him. He’s Peterson - he got the car.”

“He’s - what, in charge of this whole operation?”

Tony nods. His head feels like a lead ball attached to his spine. He swallows again and tastes iron.

“I think Peter’s been brainwashed,” he says, because what the hell. This can’t get any worse.

It’s a terrifying thing to say aloud. The notion that Peter isn’t Peter anymore is reaching out, trying to lock him in a stranglehold. _Peter isn’t Peter anymore._

 _No._ He’s Peter, he _has_ to be. No one can take that away from him.

But the perfect example that people can do just that is sitting right next to him, something dark and heavy and _scared_ resting in the back of his eyes and it hits Tony that, this time last year, _Bucky_ wasn’t Bucky at all. He was still the Winter Soldier.

“Steve said,” he says quietly. “Before we left - just mentioned it. Didn’t want to upset you, but said it was a definite possibility.”

Tony nods. He doesn’t know what to say. The more he thinks about it, the harder it is to believe any other scenario other than the one that Toomes has somehow turned Peter into - not Peter.

“Why?” Bucky shakes his head. “I mean, if _that’s_ what’s happening - that shit is _intense._ And - and _timely_ and _expensive_ and - too much. Why would he go through that much?”

Another shake of his head. Tony’s not there. He needs to focus, _needs_ to be here so he can get his kid and save him but the sinking feeling in his stomach tells him that that ship sailed long ago. He already failed. “Dunno. Another organization - could be being payed. Not a bad deal - break out of prison, get to fuck with the guy who put you in there, get some cash. Not bad.”

“But _who?”_

“I don’t fucking know,” he snaps, massaging a temple. His head is starting to ache. “HYDRA? Seems like this shit is right up their alley.”

Bucky’s mouth twists. “We’re here,” is all he says. They’ve pulled up into a free spot by the Tower, just a couple of feet from the front door. Tony throws the passenger door open and steps out.

“Anything?” he calls. Bucky’s head materializes from behind the trunk of the car. He’s carrying a semi-automatic in his hands.

The man shakes his head, squinting up. “Nothing, I don’t think. We should go up. I’ve alerted Steve and the others already, they’re on their way.”

He nods jerkily. _Breathe. Breathe._ “I got - suit, okay. Suit.”

He taps his chest, pulls strings attached to his jacket. There’s a cold sensation that spreads over his body as his suit begins to materialize, spreading out from his chest. He stands still until the mask drops over his face. _Breathe._ Tony Stark may be weak, but Iron Man is not. Tony Stark may have failed, but Iron Man won’t.

“Woah,” Bucky mutters, stepping up to him. “What’s -”

“Nanotech,” he says tensely. “Let’s go.”

They hurry into the building, stepping into the elevator silently. Bucky’s gun cocks. The buttons flash a full yellow, dinging as they shoot upwards.

Tony’s heart is in his stomach.

 _Breathe,_ he thinks at the same he thinks _Peter._ Fucking _Peter._

The doors open.

Nothing.

Empty room. Bucky steps out, gun raised.

“Give me something, Fri,” Tony says, almost pleading. He steps out. His legs feel heavy, too heavy, too heavy. _Peter. Where is Peter?_

”Mr. Parker is on the helipad, sir,” Friday says and he wasn’t even aware he had spoken aloud. He moves towards the door, throwing it open and sprinting up the steps. Bucky is on his heels and they’re both loud, too loud, not anything near stealthy, he’ll hear them but Tony doesn’t _care_ because they reach the top of the stairs and turn onto the helipad and there’s someone there - a figure in a maroon hoodie with a baseball cap and tufty hair sticking out and Tony’s heart clenches and then stops because it’s him.

It’s him.

It’s _him_.

“Peter?” he says. His voice cracks, splinters around he edges. Everything is bursting forward, the months of emptiness and longing and pain and grief are being filled to bursting with something so strong and painful he can’t even articulate it. He can barely breathe, barely think because the figure turns around and he’s a skinnier and more tired looking and scratched up but it’s him, it’s him, it’s him. It’s Peter. He’s alive and breathing and _there -_ right in front of Tony.

It’s Peter.

_It’s his kid._

He taps the side of his head. The mask falls off and something on the kid’s face twists and it’s - recognition, maybe? Something deep and confused looking and Tony stoops forward, body on automatic and the kid - his kid, his Peter - backs up, hands reaching around into a bag by his feet and Tony has all of five seconds to think _what the fuck is he doing_ before the kid straightens up and raises his arms.

There’s something small and black in his hand and Tony doesn’t move, _can’t_ move and the vague thought that _Peter is about to shoot him_ crosses his mind.

Then there’s a crack like a head smacking into some concrete, or like Bucky dropping his gun. And Tony thinks - _prays_ \- just for a second that maybe that’s what happened.

But then a white-hot bomb of pain explodes in his stomach and the world flips upside down and every single nerve in his body _explodes_ with heat and pain and he knows that the cracking was a gun.

A gun fired by Peter Parker that launched a bullet that went straight into Tony’s stomach.

He stops. Breathes a breath that barely comes. The pain is at a solid 11 and only climbing and _holy fucking shit, Peter just shot him._

Then he collapses. This time the crack _is_ a head hitting the concrete.

He’s vaguely aware of something - shouting, scraping, more cracking noises and heavy thuds - but he can’t look up, can’t raise his head to see what’s happening. It’s like he’s been stapled to the floor, unable to move, barely able to breathe. There something warm and sticky on his stomach and he can feel a burning pulsing through his body and the _bullet went through the fucking suit, is that even possible?_ and he can’t move, can’t move, can’t breathe.

There’s the sound of shouting, scraping and thudding and it sounds a million miles away, somewhere far and distant and removed and _Peter just shot him, Peter just looked him in the eyes and shot him._

He coughs. Tastes iron. His body is splitting in half.

There’s a hand suddenly, in his hair, on his face and _fuck, it hurts, it hurts._

“He -” he forces out. His throat is lines with nails, every breath is torn through them. Burning, it’s burning. “Shot - he shot -”

“Shut up,” says a voice - Nat, maybe - angry and scared and the hand grips the side of his face _hard_. “Don’t you dare die on me, Stark, don’t you fucking _dare.”_

She sounds scared, so scared and _shit,_ he thinks _, it must be bad._ He coughs again. Every atom is on fire and his chest _hurts_ and Peter shot him, he shot him - _why did he shoot him, he’s not supposed to shoot him, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be -_

The colors around him blur. Everything is hot and sticky and burning and his chest is too tight and the breath is getting caught somewhere in his throat and it’s _burning_ and _Peter shot him_ and _he’s fucking alive_. He’s alive and he shot him and it _hurts._

Then his vision goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double update! go me! also this chapter is over 5k words long IM SORRY i should’ve broke it up.....oopsie 
> 
> but wow. Shits getting real! chaos is ensuing!! thank you again for all the love you guys leave this story it means sm to me:))


	11. name

He gets dropped off just outside the front door of the Avengers Tower sometime the next morning. The van pulls away, disappearing around the corner, without so much as a goodbye and he’s left alone, five feet in front of the building he spent last night memorizing inside out.

The first thing he notices is how _huge_ the building is.

It sticks out of the New York City skyline - already chock-full of ginormous buildings as it is - like a sore thumb, towering over the surrounding office buildings and apartment complexes. It’s all steel and glass and industrial perfection, constructed in a way that gives him the impression whoever was in charge of its building thougly of every single detail months beforehand. If he tips his head almost all the way up and squints, he can just make out the shape of a giant ‘A’ with an arrow running through it plastered to the front of the building, just next to what looks like a small landing strip.

 _A_ for Avengers.  

He grits his teeth, hand reaching around to grasp the strap of his backpack. Inside is his standard handgun, another jacket, and a slightly-larger-than-usual bomb. It’s meant to do more damage this time, Sir explained. The amount of vibranium in it was upped so that it can basically take out the top half of the building easily and probably the top halves of a lot of surrounding buildings too.

He pauses at the door. There’s a keypad and what looks like a thumbprint scanner. He blinks once.

Sir said it would work for him. He didn’t even need his lock breaker - or any other tool, for the matter. He’s supposedly already in the system. Already programmed to enter and exit the Avengers Tower whenever he pleased without so much as a single alarm going off.

That had confused him a little when Sir had explained it to him. The main question was how. _How_ was he already in the system? _How_ could that be possible if one of his main attributes was invisibility - no one knowing who he was.

He had stopped worrying about it. Sir had probably gotten it sorted before he arrived, that was it. He didn’t know a lot about the operations of Sir and his people - aside from the ones that include him - but he knows enough to be able to tell they’re technologically advanced, to say the least. They could hack into the Avengers Tower’s database and put his name in easily. Probably.

He takes a steadying breath. Anticipation mingled with nervousness snaps at his heels, trying to pull him back. He shoves it away. He is Number Three. He is special. This - this moment, this mission - this is what he was made for. He will not mess it up - he can’t.

So he presses his thumb to the pad. There’s a humming noise from deep within the door, then a faint click, then it swings open and his heart leaps to the back of his throat.

He swallows. The air from the inside is cold and smells a little like roses and cinnamon.

The _something_ bubbles up, gnawing at a place in his brain just out of reach. He takes the quiet feeling and tosses it in a tiny metal box in the back of his head. Then locks it and throws away the key for good measure. Whatever the _something_ is, he doesn’t have time for it. It will only make him make mistakes, mess something up, and he under _no_ circumstances can afford that.

No do overs. This is his only shot to complete his mission. Failure will result it - well, he doesn’t want to think about that. Sir had made it very clear that it would be painful. At the least.

He steps inside. The lobby is deserted, lights all off except for one flickering above the desk. The place could pass for deserted; it has the same empty feeling as the office building he broke into in Szeged, but Number Three knows better. The Avengers are very much active in the Tower - they have been for the past several months.

Still, the empty feeling lingers. He stands in the doorway, unmoving. He feels uncertain, out of place. Like this is someone’s kitchen and the family is sitting down for dinner and there he is, walking in, inserting himself where he doesn’t belong.

The room feels too small. He wants to leave.

He shakes his head, clamping his jaw down. He’s being stupid. It doesn’t matter if he belongs, it doesn’t matter how big the room is, it doesn’t matter how he _feels_. That’s all inconsequential. He has a job to do.

Detonate the bomb. If Iron Man - or any other Avengers - appear, shoot on sight. Prioritize Iron Man.

He breathes out forcefully. The noise echoes around the small, empty space. The elevator is across the room, doors sleek and polished and Number Three can almost see his reflection in them. Almost. He looks like a smudge of shape and color, really. Disjointed.

 _Focus._ He moves, crossing the room. His boots echo on the tiles, sound bouncing around and shooting straight into his ears. He presses the button and the doors slide open. Without so much as another though, he steps inside and presses the button for the top floor.

The inside is nice. Polished hardwood and sleek railings. Everything looks strangely unused, as if he’s the first person to step inside the elevator in years. There’s not so much as a stray fingerprint on the floor buttons or a smudge on the handrail.

The lights flash orange and the elevator starts. The feeling is weird, like his organs are being moved up but his body is staying behind. He goes to grab the railing, steady himself, but stops. _Leave no trace._ It’ll be easier if he doesn’t have to worry about cleaning up handprints, especially if he has to leave in a hurry. It won’t be efficient.

He closes his eyes, deciding he definitely doesn’t like elevators. The sensation is making him sick. Instead he focuses on his mission, his objective, his _target._

Red and gold paint job. Dull colors. Eyes are white slits in the face. Shiny - made from some metal alloy, not actually iron. The eyes _\- the eyes._ There’s something haunting about them, even though he’s only seen photos of them. Like they’re staring right into him, understanding parts of him he doesn’t even know exist. There’s something familiar about the stare, something buried deep within him. That gaze - those _eyes_.

 _Eyes of a murderer_ , he reminds himself forcefully. Iron Man - and the man behind it - had been responsible for all sorts of destruction over the past decade. The disaster in Sokovia had been orchestrated by a machine Iron Man had built - another product of his never ending narcissism, no doubt. New York, too. Another disaster he - and the Avengers, by extension - had claimed to be able to prevent, at yet totally failed.

This is necessary. What he was going to do is _necessary_ because it was going to protect people. Shield them from another Avengers-orchestrated disaster. Shield them from another city falling out of the sky, another invasion, another _something_ that the Avengers claimed they could protect the universe from only to fail.

Because _that_ was what is dangerous about them. The false sense of security they give people, making them think that they can sleep through the night without anything bad happening.

That is why he’s doing this. _That_.

The elevator dings. The doors hiss open. He’s here.

He steps out, softly, so softly. Looks around. There’s nothing - no one there. The room - a living room, by the looks of it, with the kitchen just visible past the furniture - is deserted.

He doesn’t waste time staring at the empty room - _hopefully_ empty, at least. His end location is up one more flight.

The helipad. He’s studied the floor plan of the Tower an endless amount of times and the path he has to take to get there is in his head in a second. It will take him two minutes, tops. But still. The silence is unnerving. Did he really get that lucky and show up at the _one time_ no one else was here? It feels beyond unlikely. Surely there’s someone - _someone_.

But another couple of steps met with total silence lead him to think that maybe he _did_ get that lucky.

Lucky is objective. On one hand, he doesn’t run the risk of getting caught and captured by the Avengers - an unforgivable mistake - but on the other, no Avengers means no carrying out of the main part of his mission - taking out Iron Man. He frowns and takes another step.

Finally, his impatience wins over. He’s moving too slow, wasting time. There’s no one here, but that won’t last forever. He has to _move._

So he does, slipping around the furniture and headed to a back door. He shoves it open and sunlight pours into the gloomy room. There’s a set of black metal stairs in front of him and he hurries up them, tugging his backpack around to his stomach and unzipping it with one hand.

The helipad is just as empty as the rest of the Tower - too empty, too empty, something is going to go _wrong_ \- and he hurries to the center. There’s a giant metal spire sticking out that’s supposed to generate service and power for the building. It’s also a key support system for the internal structure. One explosion at its base and - _boom_. Half the building will be gone in an instant.

He crouches down beside the spire and rests his hand on it. It’s _hot_. He winces, drawing his hand back, and pulls out the familiar flat disc. The purple light scatters, dancing off the immaculately polished metal around him. It’s a little larger - a little more powerful. He still has five minutes to leave before the explosion hits, but that’s not an issue. He’s already mapped out his exit route; a quick hop between buildings - only a ten foot jump - down a fire escape, cross to another building - this one empty - break in through a window, and down an elevator back to street level. Easy.

_Easy._

Then something behind him bangs, and things get substantially less easy all of a sudden.

Panic slams into him like a ton of bricks and, for a second, he’s not sure why but then he spins on his heel, still crouched down, and comes face to face with two men.

And _then_ it makes sense. He’s been caught.

One is dressed in black jeans and a bomber jacket and has dark hair falling into his eyes and a hefty-looking semi-automatic pointed vaguely in his direction. But he’s not even scared, barely even _registers_ the man he knows from endless memorization to be James Barnes - ex-HYDRA assassin - because the man standing next to him is none other than Iron Man.

 _Iron Man_.

“Peter?” The man’s voice is fairly robotic and tinny, like he’s speaking through a metal pipe. The emotion in it hits him even harder and for a second he’s paralyzed because Iron Man’s voice is shot full to bursting with worry and concern and fear and shock and amazement and a million other emotions Number Three doesn’t even know the names of. And he called him that name - _that name._ Peter. Just like the girl. _Peter, Peter, Peter._ It feels clunky and unnatural rattling around in his head. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know who Peter is, but the look on Iron Man’s face and the pulling feeling in his gut makes him feel like he should.

Iron Man reaches up - to fire, he’s going to fire - but all he does is tap the side of his mask. The white eyes, the red and gold paint melts away and -

 _And_ -

The _something_ rears its head because he knows, he knows, he _knows._ He doesn’t know what he does but he _knows_ \- that man, that face - he _knows._

Soft eyes. Brown, dark brown. Worry lines cutting deep into the skin. Goatee. Brown hair sticking up on end. He knows. He _knows._

No - _no._ He shakes his head, imperceptibly. _No_ \- the _something_ can wait - it has to wait - this is his _mission_. Mask, no mask, it’s all the same. This is Iron Man - the person he’s been sent here to kill.

He cannot fail. _He cannot fail_.

But he _knows_ -

He bites his cheek hard enough to draw blood. There’s a weird empty feeling in his head, like something’s been wrenched out of it and the space is just _there_ , there’s something missing but he doesn’t know what, he doesn’t know anything - _but he knows this man, he knows -_ he doesn’t know, he _doesn’t know_.

Goatee. Eyes. A step forward.

 _He’ll kill you,_ something inside Number Three snarls with such ferocity it terrifies him.

 _Mask, no mask._ It doesn’t matter - _it doesn’t matter._ He has a mission - _this_ is his mission.

Weapons do not fail. He is Number Three, he is a weapon. He does not fail.

It’s automatic. Of course it is - it’s all he’s trained for. He reaches around behind him to where his bag still is and shoves his hand in and his fingers brush against the familiar coldness of the barrel of his gun. He wraps his hand around it, tugs it out, holds it up, and, before the stupid _something_ can pull him back again, fires.

The bullets are vibranium. Strongest metal known to man. Even whatever alloy Iron Man’s suit is made out of - and he has no doubt it’s a strong one - can’t stop the bullet from going straight through and into the man’s stomach.

He staggers back. He looks confused - offended, almost. Number Three drops his hands. The gun clatters to the floor. He’s shaking.

 _I shot him_ , he thinks, and something about that thought opens a sinkhole the size of a crater in his chest. _I shot him._

No pride. No satisfaction. Nothing he was expecting, because he just completed his mission and he should feel _good_ but all he feels is a deep, deep sense that he’s just done something very, _very_ wrong.

 _I shot him,_ he thinks again, shifting back on his heels. _I just shot Tony._

The name - Tony, Tony, _Tony -_ comes from nowhere. For a second he pauses because who on _earth_ is Tony? - but _he knows,_ something inside him screams, _he knows_.

Then the persistent voice inside him shuts up because everything starts happening very fast, all at the same time.

The door he came through bangs open again and in comes three more people - _armed_ . He just has time to put names to faces - Captain America, Black Widow, and War Machine - before something - _someone_ \- slams right into him. His head smacks against the metal pole; a dull ring echoes through him. The person - no idea who - presses him down, one elbow planted firmly across his neck and his head _hurts_ and the person twists around.

“Stevie! Get - help me with the kid! Rhodey, Nat - take Tony!”

 _Tony, Tony, Tony._ He turns the name over in his head for all of three seconds before mentally snapping back. No time - he has _no time_ for that. It doesn’t matter who the man he shot was - what matters is getting away from this.

 _Haven’t detonated the bomb yet,_ he reminds himself and white-hot desperation courses through him. He cannot fail. _He cannot fail._

He curls up and explodes backward, the sudden movement catching his attacker off guard. They tumble back, Number Three slamming his feet down on the person’s chest and launching himself up into a standing position. Quick - _quick._ He reaches down to his boot and unfastens the knife he keeps there. _In case of emergencies_ and this definitely feels like an emergency.

He looks at the man who attacked him, already on their feet, and his heart sinks.

_James Buchanan Barnes. Ex-army sergeant, ex-highly trained HYDRA assassin. Known weaknesses: none. Known strengths: hand-to-hand combat, knife combat._

He grits his teeth. _Of course._

Then Barnes lunches forward, barely missing Number Three. He swings around, knife outstretched and the man ducks. His hand swings around, catching Number Three in the stomach and the breath in his chest jerks painfully. Another stab, another miss. He ducks the man’s punch this time and settles for a well-placed shove that sends him tumbling. He goes to jump on the man and suddenly his legs are swept out from under him. He hits the metal hard - _god,_ it just had to be a metal floor, didn’t it? - and rolls over, swinging the knife. It hits the man’s metal arm - he knows he’d been forgetting something - and again, a punch. He swings blindly, panic starting to set in, and heard a few satisfying smacking noises. A grunt, then an arm swings directly into his face. He’s too slow - too slow - and jerks back on impact. Blood fills his mouth and he spits and kicks and swings his fists as hard as he possibly can.

Then they’re both on the ground - he doesn’t remember falling - and Number Three grabs the man’s hair, pulls it, wraps his legs around his neck. He reaches up with the knife and the arm - the metal one - swings up and catches him in the stomach. He doubles over, curls up, wheezing - _that hurt -_ and the knife falls somewhere - no, no, _he cannot fail._

He settles for pummeling the sergeant with his fists, locking a few good ones in on his jaw. The metal arm swings at him, catches him on the face, on the lip - _god, it hurts_ \- and he tastes blood.

“Shit,” the man mutters. His voice is gravelly. Scared. He dodges a swipe from Number Three and drops his whole weight on him, crushing him to the metal. He tastes iron. His head is pounding and no matter how much he struggles, he can’t move.

He’s trapped.

“Steve!” A shout. Too loud. He thrashes - _he’s trapped, he’s trapped, he’s going to fail -_ and the weight on his back prssses down more. “Get over here!”

There’s heavy footsteps and he _thrashes_ and a hand reaches down, wrapping in his hair - _his cap, where is his cap? -_ and pulls his head up.

The sunlight is bright. One of his eyes stings. Blood. Iron.

_You shot him, you shot him, why did you shoot him?_

_He’s my mission,_ Number Three snarls silently. _I did the right thing._

“Is it him?” Barnes’s voice is soft. Scared.

The man above him - Number Three has to squint to see him - frowns deep. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Captain America.

His hands reach for a gun that isn’t there. He’s going to fail, _he’s going to fail_. Captain America’s face is dark. Angry. A jolt fear shoots through Number Three.

No. He’s not weak. He’s not _afraid_.

“Yes,” the captain says and Number Three has no idea who they’re talking about but it makes his stomach twist.

The captain takes a step forward and crouches down in front of Number Three and for a second he’s convinced the man is going to kill him - right here, right now - and, with the hand in his hair and his knees on the ground and his own blood in his mouth, there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Anger, white-hot and boiling, courses through him. These Avengers, these stupid, _stupid_ Avengers.

But the man - Captain America - doesn’t kill him. He doesn’t so much as lay a finger in him. Instead he rests his hands on his thighs and stares at him.

“What’s your name?”

The Captain’s voice is soft and something inside him aches and _he’s a murderer_ , he reminds himself. _They’re all murderers._

He spits in the man’s face.

_Rule number one. Give up no information about yourself._

The Captain rocks back in his heels, wiping his face. The hand in Number Three’s hair tightens.

“Okay,” Captain America says, voice level. He stands up. Then again, “Okay.”

With a wrench, Number Three is hoisted into a standing position. Something sharp pokes into his side - _a knife,_ he thinks - and he feels Barnes’s hair brush his cheek as he leans close to his ear.

“Try any funny business,” the man says, voice shot through with fury. “And I’ll skewer you. Got it?”

He half-wonders why the man sounds so angry before remembering that he just shot his friend. His name - _what was his name?_ He was Iron Man, but what was his _name?_

He falters. He’s wasting time, worrying about irrelevant things; who _cares_ what Iron Man’s name is? He cannot fail, that is all that’s important.. _He cannot fail._

But he cannot win. Special as he may be, he’s up against not one but two highly trailed soldiers, one of them with genetic modifications. Two versus one.

He may be a weapon, but he cannot win this one.

So he sets his jaw, narrows his eyes, and jerks his head in affirmation. _Say nothing. Give them nothing._

Someone sighs - the captain, probably.  “This isn’t him,” he says. The man’s voice is shaky. Something tells him that isn’t a usual occurrence.

“I know.”

“You -” The captain starts, but Number Three feels Barnes shake his head. Something heavy hands in the air, something dark and beyond his understanding. He’s missing something, he’s missing so much.

“I’m fine. Don’t - just worry about the kid.”

 _The kid._ Another _something._ Familiar. Like a ghost limb. Like there was something there that’s been wrenched out and the space it left is too big, too - _there._

_He knows -_

What had the name been? The one that had come to his mind?

He racks his brains. Nothing. Blankness and nothing and he _knows,_ he knows he knows _something_ , but he can’t remember.

Number Three, for all his intelligence, can’t remember. Number Three, for all his training and practice and powers and skills and _preparation_ , is trapped. Number Three, for all his - _everything,_ can do nothing but go slack as he is half-marched, half-dragged into the darkness and gloom and _silence_ of the Tower.  

This time he doesn’t try to fight the fear that swamps him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dude the fight scene is not It...i am sorry i can’t write fight scenes for the life of me 
> 
> but! things are happening! peter/number three experiencing some #dilemmas ....spoiler alert they will only get worse....:)
> 
> also...because i have no impulse control and don’t feel complete if i’m not writing like 6 things at once...how would y’all feel abt another big fic? i’m thinking of a peter-centric post hoco fic...w lots of Angst and Recovery but honestly open to suggestions...lemme have it
> 
> (thank u as always for all ur support! much love<3)


	12. awake

He comes to and everything hurts.

Body - stomach specifically, head too. Head. Chest. The hole, the Peter-sized hole, is screaming. Screaming.

The lights are too bright. Every breath feels like it’s being shred to pieces before he can absorb the oxygen, every swallow is like a mouthful of glass.

He was shot. Peter shot him.

It doesn’t make sense. He can’t - no. There’s no logic to that, no sense, no - nothing. Nothing. This can’t be right, Peter - he would never.

It’s not Peter, though. The hole in his stomach tells him that much. Whoever that was on the helipad, whoever it was who fired the gun - it wasn’t Peter.

Same body. Same face, same hair, same eyes. But not the same person.

It can’t be.

He rolls over. Everything is too bright. He wants Peter. He wants his kid.

He falls in and out of consciousness to the tune of a throbbing pain in his stomach and the endless sound of gunshots and heads hitting concrete and someone screaming his name.

It sounds like Peter, maybe. He passes out again before he can tell.

 

* * *

 

 

His dreams are filled with gunshots and blood, metal scraping on metal and screaming. Blood and screaming and a hole in his stomach. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. Peter is there. He’s holding a gun. His hands are red and is eyes are dark.

Someone’s there - real or in the dream, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. Everything hurts. A hand runs through is hair, gentle noises surround him, and he dips in and out of more nightmares.

Afghanistan. New York. Aliens and falling buildings and everyone dead at his feet. Sokovia. Ultron. Car parks and burning beaches and ferries splitting in half and Peter, Peter, Peter.

All Peter.

There’s gunshots in every single one of them.

Then there’s voices and bright lights and the sound of crying and stomach _burns_ and he passes out again.

 

* * *

 

 

When he wakes again, he feels better.

Tired - beyond tired, _exhausted -_ and sweaty and in good need of a shower of six. And a drink. He feels hollowed out, like a jack-o-lantern left out for too long.

But less pain. He can move without blacking out.

He shifts, props himself up on his elbows and looks around.

“Hey, Tones.”

He smiles a little, despite himself. _Rhodey_. Safe and familiar. He can trust Rhodey.

“Hey, sourpatch,” he says, laying back down. His stomach is still sore, like he was jabbed by a steel two-by-four, and the whole sitting up thing isn’t making things better.

“How are you?”

He thinks for a second. Stares at the ceiling. It’s off-white and arching and makes him feel very, very small. “Peter shot me.”

It’s not a question, really. Just an observation. He says it as lightly as he can, as if that will change anything; take away the heaviness and terrifying quality that sentence has. Peter Parker, the friendly neighborhood Spider-man, the guy who helps old ladies cross the street and always carries bugs out of the room instead of killing them, who is all love and gentleness and goodness, shot him.

He feels empty. Empty and scared.

“Yeah.” Rhodey’s voice is heavy. “Yeah, he did.”

“Why?”

He sounds so scared. So scared and tired and _weak;_ it’s pathetic. He wasn’t raised like this. He’s a Stark; Stark men are made of steel. Stark men’s voices do not shake when they speak and their eyes do not burn like how his are right now but he can’t help it because Peter - his Peter, his kid - shot him.

And plus, it’s Rhodey. Rhodey is safe. He can be scared around Rhodey. He won’t judge him, won’t laugh or call him weak or backhand him into next week.

Rhodey is safe.

“We’ve been talking with him a bit,” says his friend and the hesitation in his voice makes Tony sure that he’s really not going to like whatever he’s going to say. “Well - _we’ve_ been talking. He’s been...just sitting there, kinda. Got him to say a few things, though.”

He counts sixteen tiles on the ceiling before responding. “What things?”

A sigh. “He has no clue who Peter Parker is. Only answers to Number Three - whatever the hell that means. Doesn’t know he’s working for Toomes, as far as we can tell, at least. Kinda got a bone to pick with the Avengers, not gonna lie.”

Tony bites back a scream. He’s not sure his stomach can air it. “Amazing. Fucking amazing.”

He can’t see Rhodey’s face, and he’s a little happy about it. He’s not sure if he can take the abject worry and concern he knows will be written all over it. Rhodey is good with letting Tony do his thing and not tug him down with excessive worry, but he feels like this situation might push the limits of his forced neutrality a little.

“How’s the stomach?”

Tony grunts. “Fine, surprisingly. What happened?”

Rhodey sighs again. “Well, the bullet went straight through the metal - vibranium, of course. There was a lot of shrapnel around the wound which was a little, uh, worrisome to remove. Thank god for Helen Cho.”

“She was here?”

“No shit, Tones. It was bad.” Rhodey swallows audibly. “We thought you were gonna die. Nat was about to give you mouth to mouth just so she could beat the shit out of you for scaring us so bad. But yeah, shrapnel, getting the bullet out, all that. You were out for most of it, thank god. She used that nanotech shit to patch you up after the surgery was finished - that’s probably why you feel fine. She says, technically speaking, you can move around now, but no more, you know -”

“Getting shot.” Tony huffs a laugh. “Got that. How long have you been sitting here for?”

Because his friend looks tired - beyond tired, really - and Tony knows a large part of that is owed to the fact that Rhodey, being Rhodey, has probably been sitting in that chair for the past 72 hours straight. The familiar taste of guilt burns in his mouth.

Beside him, his friend huffs a laugh. “Oh, you know. Most of the time you’ve been out, on and off. Been sleeping, don’t worry - I save the crippling insomnia for you.”

He snorts. The movement feels unfamiliar and painful.

“But yeah. Just woke up a couple of hours ago, actually. We’ve been doing shifts, kinda. Bucky and Nat less so; they’re looking after the kid. Pepper was here for a bit too but she had to go. Work stuff. The board wouldn’t let her cancel. She says you’re a fucking idiot for getting shot and she loves you, all the usual. That was - what, three days ago? Four? Dunno, but yeah.”

 _Three, four days?_ “How long have I been out for?”

“This marks day five.”

Jesus. He’s wasted so much time. “I gotta get up,” he mumbles, making an attempt to shove himself up into a sitting position again. His stomach protests and he flops back down again, wincing. Fucking hell.

“You wouldn’t have an advil or two for me, would you, honeybear?” he cranes his neck over to where Rhodey is sitting, right by his bed. The skin under his eyes is dark and almost bruised-looking. _Getting enough sleep, my ass_. Tony’s stomach twists and he makes a lame attempt at a joke. “Or a shot of morphine?”

Rhodey is unamused. “Slow your roll, Tony. I said _technically_ speaking. You need rest.”

“I need to talk to my kid,” he fires back, unable to stop the undercurrent of desperation that runs through his voice because it’s been five days - _five_ days - and he’s just been lying here, doing nothing.

Rhodey’s face creases into a well-worn look of tired concern.

“Tony -” he begins, but Tony’s already shaking his head, making his third and first successful attempt to get himself into a sitting position. His stomach burns - nanotech is good, but not that good, he guesses - and he ignores it. Rhodey shifts forward, like he’s bracing himself to catch Tony if he falls.

“No,” he all he says.

Rhodey cocks an eyebrow, hands still half held up. “No?” he echoes. “You think your recovery is, what, up for debate here? You think we’re going to take a vote, or something?”

Tony nods and swings his legs over the side of the bed. No IV to remove, thank god. It’s always a bitch taking those things out. “Pretty much.”

“You need rest,” Rhodey repeats, standing. His voice is deadly serious. “I’m not fucking around right now, Tony. There’s a half-healed hole in your stomach. Lay back down.”

Tony glares at him. This conversation reminds him of the pre-Afghanistan spats they’d have, where Rhodey would order, ask, even _beg_ Tony to slow down, to get some sleep, to stop drinking and all he would do was coldly refuse.

He hates that person. And he hates that he’s acting like him now, but Peter - Number Three, _whoever -_ is here and if it takes Tony acting like a petulant child to let him see him, then so be it.

Meanwhile, Rhodey’s still on the warpath, still totally unamused. “You’re not in the right state to see him now.”

He balks, feet hanging a couple inches above the floor. God, his body is not going to thank him when he finally stands up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rhodey sighs. “You’ve been shot, and -”

“Really? I had no idea.”

A glare filled to bursting with worry. “Will you shut your ass up? You’ve been shot and the kid who shot you is sitting in a holding cell refusing to speak and eat and so much as look in our general direction. And - even if by some miracle of fucking force - you got him to talk, he - shit, Tony, he doesn’t remember _anything.”_

Tony’s heart stills.

Rhodey carries on, meeting his gaze firmly. But he can read the hesitation and concern and outright _fear_ in his friend’s eyes like an open book “It’s not just his name, it’s everything. From his birthday to his favorite color to us to who May is to Homecoming and Toomes and Germany and Star Wars and his friends and Spider-man - Tony, he thinks Spider-man is _dead_ . He thinks _we_ \- the Avengers - are the scum of the fucking earth. He thinks _you_ are a power hungry weapons manufacturer who willingly killed millions and continues to do so to this day. He thinks everything from New York to Sokovia to fucking _global warming_ is your fault.”

Tony swallows. Broken glass. Broken glass and the faintest taste of iron.

Rhodey shakes his head. “Whatever horseshit Toomes has been feeding him, it’s stuck. That boy in there isn’t Peter, Tony. He - he just isn’t Peter anymore.”

So it’s final, then. The other shoe dropped. He fixes his gaze on one of the legs of Rhodey’s chair and blinks hard.

“So, sane thing as Bucky, then?” he croaks out and cannot - _cannot -_ fathom that this is an actual reality that’s happening. He cannot fathom how _shitty_ the universe is to deliver Peter back to him, alive and breathing, only to have stolen the things from him that make him Peter in the first place. “Brainwashing?”

It isn’t fair. It isn’t fucking fair.

He can feel Rhodey’s gaze still on him. “Yeah, well, we’re not sure, really. We’ve been running brain scans; only way we’ve gotten the information we have. We’ll ask him questions and see what the activity monitor shows and kinda guess the answers.”

“Kinda guess?” he echoes. “Sounds scientific.”

Rhodey huff-laughs again. “Yeah, well, like I said. Kid won’t talk. It’s the best we can do without torturing him or some shit, which - yeah. Not happening.”

He hums in agreement while his stomach twists at the idea of someone doing that - _thinking about_ doing that to his kid. “So. What have we worked out?”

“Answers to Number Three. He told us that. Doesn’t know who Toomes is or what he did to him. Or, if he does, doesn’t care. No memories past the point of about six months ago - starts right after he allegedly died. He knows _of_ the Avengers, definitely, but none of the memories Peter has. Textbook stuff, really. Didn’t even know any of our actual names. Definitely doesn’t like us, though, as I said. He has a pretty dim view on the whole New York debacle. And Sokovia, too.”

“Great.” Tony reaches up and passes a hand over his face. _“Great._ Any idea how - shit _\- how_ Toomes did this? Was it even Toomes alone?”

He twists his head to Rhodey, who ahrugs. He looks defeated. “We’ve no idea if Toomes is operating alone; neither does the kid. Don’t think he cares, to be honest. Bucky thinks he isn’t, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, you know.” A tight look passes over his friend’s face, one that Tony _does_ understand. They all remember the Winter Soldier, after all. “Plus, from what he knows, this kind of process is expensive. It’s unlikely Toomes is able to finance it on his own, he thinks, but nothing definite.”

“Is it - is it the same?” he asks. _Please don’t let it be, please don’t let it be,_ please. “Like the same thing that happened to Bucky?”

Another shrug. “Again, don’t think so, but not entirely sure. We compared his brain scans to those of the Winter Soldier - the ones from the early days in Wakanda - and there’s some pretty big differences.”

“What, activity levels all different, and stuff?”

Rhodey nods and Tony fixes his gaze back to the ceiling and the tiles and the horrified feeling in his stomach doesn’t disappeared. Even if Peter hasn’t been Winter Soldier-ified, he’s _still not Peter._ He still looked Tony in the eyes and shot him without so much as blinking.

He shakes his head a little as Rhodey responds. “Yeah, pretty much. Bucky’s brain was completely dead. Barely any activity other than the places necessary for life function. The kid’s is a bit more active. Emotion centers are up and running. The darkest places are his memory receptors, specifically the short-term ones.”

He hums, turning it over in his head. “Okay. That would make sense, I guess. He clearly has to be able to remember some things over time - information about us, for one. So if Toomes was - I don’t know, _frying_ the kid’s short-term receptors -”

“ - He’d forget things that happened recently, like missions and stuff, but he’d remember information from longer ago.” Rhodey finishes and Tony nods.

“Yeah. Timing is key, then. He’s have to have an initial wipe - or a lot of wipes, probably - of all his memory receptors at the start, and then routine ones that take out shit from the short-term ones. Like, every day kind of routine.”

“Exactly. Kid’s smart as fuck; he’s a genius. Killer memory. If it were to happen like that - or in any way, really - it’d have to be intense.”

Tony swallows another mouthful of ash and glass. His throat hurts. His head hurts, his stomach hurts, his chest hurts. “That would be pretty painful.”

Something heavy hangs in the air over Tony’s bed, making it hard to breathe. He can’t imagine it - doesn’t want to. A daily ritual of the kid being hooked up to some machine and having his head zapped into nothingness makes him feel sick. No one - _no one -_ should be able to do that to him. No one. Tony is supposed to protect him, supposed to stop things like that from happening.

 _You failed,_ the voice sneers. _And now Peter is gone._

He swallows again. His stomach twists.

“Yeah.” Rhodey’s voice is dark. “Yeah.”

Tony stares at the ceiling for a few moments in silence. Then, “Why can’t I see him, Rhodey?”

A sigh. Something in his gut tells him he’s not going to like this answer. “You were shot,” his friend says again and, honestly, Tony can’t blame him for repeating it over and over again. It’s like a lifeline, really. A really shitty, half-broken, and almost too rough to grab one, but a lifeline all the same. In a situation where they know nothing, can explain nothing, can do _nothing_ to fix it, they need constants. And the constant in question so happens to be that Tony had gotten a hole blown through his stomach by a fifteen year old kid-turned-mindless-destruction-machine. “You were shot and - do _not_ interrupt me, okay?”

He nods.

“That fucks you up. On all levels. Physically, you can barely walk, Tones. You lost a lot of blood - shit, we thought you were going to _die._ You can’t walk that off, no matter how hard you try. Yeah, you’re Iron Man, but you’re not physically made of iron. You need rest.”

“Bullshit,” he mutters, only half-joking.

“I’ll sedate you if I have to,” Rhodey says. Only half-joking too. “And mentally - one, _he shot you_ . Peter - the kid you look at like you hung all the stars in the fucking sky just to see him smile - shot you. That fucked _us_ up - no one’s been sleeping, barely anyone’s eating, Bucky’s a mess, Steve cried, Natasha - _Natasha_ \- fucking cried _._ I can’t even begin to imagine how this feels for you. And look, Tones, I know at the end of the day the most I can do is staple you to the bed and hope you don’t hurt yourself too much ripping them out so you can go talk to Peter, but I want - shit, I want you to be as least amounts of hurt as possible, you know? I don’t want you to disappear again like you did after the kid died. I don’t want you - I don’t know. I just don’t want you to walk into that holding cell and see him like this because it _isn’t him_. And it’s terrifying and horrible and - I just don’t want you to feel any of that. At least for a bit.”

He half-nods. His throat is closing up and for the millionth time in his stupid, _stupid_ life, Tony is reminded of how little he deserves someone like Rhodey.  

“And, again, I know I can’t stop you,” Rhodey continues. His voice is low and deliberately steady and Tony’s chest aches _so, so much._ “Because you’re Tony Stark and you listen to me maybe 30% of the time -”

“Hey, at least 45,”

Rhodey snorts and the tightness in his chest alleviates just a little. “You wish. But yeah, can’t stop you, all that. But I at least want you to wait. Just wait until, I don’t know, the ridiculous amount of cortisol in your body doesn’t eat up the skin graft and make you bleed out all over the holding cell, or something. Okay?”

He’s tired, so tired, and further arguing the point will probably only make it worse, but he also knows he can’t just _sit_ here. Hurt, half-dead, whatever. He can’t do nothing. The kid he’s been waiting for for six months is a five minute walk away and it’s mindless, _insane_ to expect him to just sit.

And yet, the selfishness in him reigns supreme. He’s not sure if he can face Peter right now - or whatever aborted version of them they have in the holding cell.

 _Weak_ , the voice snarls. _Pathetic. Can’t even look him in the eyes. Coward._

He clenches a hand atop the blanket. “I can’t just sit here, Rhodey,” he says. His voice is too small, too shaky, but he reminds himself that it’s Rhodey he’s talking to, and Rhodey doesn’t mind his weaknesses. Rhodey is safe. “I can’t just sit in bed and do nothing while he’s _here._ I’ve been waiting for this for six months; I can’t just - I don’t know. I have to do something.”

Rhodey nods a little. “One day,” he says. “One more day of rest and you can talk to him, okay?”

“But -”

Rhodey’s expertly trained at shutting down his protests. He raises a hand. “No buts.”

“There has to be _something -”_

“We still have to tell the kid’s friends,” Rhodey says tersely and Tony’s heart sinks into his stomach. “Ted and MJ.”

“Ned,” he murmurs. He’d personally rather get shot again and than look the two is them in the eyes and explain that their best friend in the whole wide world has had his entire essence fried out of them and couldn’t tell anyone who they were. Still, the idea of just sitting here until Rhodey deems him stable enough to leave makes his skin crawl. He can’t. He feels powerless, useless, and it’s maddening. He _can’t._

So he concedes, internally slamming his head against the whitewashed walls of the med bay. “Fine. Fine, I’ll - okay. What time is it?”

Rhodey checks his watch and pulls a face. “Past your bedtime, that’s for sure. You get some sleep and in the morning you can talk to the kids.”

His stomach clenches. “And then Peter?”

Rhodey heaves his loudest sigh yet. In the dim light of the med bay, he looks years and years older. Tired and worn out and hopelessly old. Tony knows more than a little bit of that is his fault and the age-old guilt starts biting at his heels again.

This whole mess - the shooting, Midtown, the hole in his stomach, Natasha and Steve’s tears, Rhodey’s unsurpassable worry, Peter’s brainwashing, all of it - is on him. He’s supposed to be good abt this; he’s supposed to be able to protect the people around him - his family. _Peter._ He was supposed to stop the danger before it hit, not desperately scramble to fix things afterwards. Isn’t that why he became Iron Man in the first place? To save people? To shoulder the burdens the burdens he loved weren’t equipped to carry - or shouldn’t have to?

But he isn’t Iron Man. Earth’s best defender, his ass. That distinction was made clear the second Peter was shot.

Or wasn’t, really. Not that it makes a difference at this point. Peter died on the floor of that bunker, even if his body lives on, locked away in some holding cell a few rooms down.

Hopelessness mingles in with the grief, harsh and stinging. He failed. _He failed._ He failed May. He failed Ned and MJ. He failed Peter.

He’s tired. So tired. His stomach burns and something in the backs of his eyes won’t stop stinging and he’s tired, so, _so_ tired.

“Yeah,” says Rhodey, because he’s still there, still waiting, still looking after Tony like he hasn’t proved himself unworthy of that time and time and time again. “Then Peter.”

He closes his eyes. Everything hurts.

He misses Peter. Just like when he was dead, except this time is worse, because the irony is he _isn’t even dead._ He’s just - gone.

“Goodnight, Tones.” Rhodey’s voice is soft and gentle and a hand - his hand - runs gently through Tony’s hair. He relaxes into the touch instinctively. _Rhodey._

“Night,” he murmurs, brain already going a little fuzzy.

He drifts off with Rhodey’s hand still running through is hair. His dreams are filled with gunshots and the smell of wet dirt and headstones and flowers and someone screaming Peter’s name over and over again. It’s him. It’s always him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said rhodeytony rights....they really are Superior...would die for them tbh. this is kinda a slow chapter zzzz sorry i gotta  
> whump tony like every other chapter u know how it b
> 
> thank u as always for all your support!!! love u all lots<3


	13. cell

He’s hungry.

He’s so _hungry._

Every other thought is impossible to follow through with. He can’t plan, can’t think of a way out, can’t so much as move across the room, much less fight his way out.

All because he’s fucking _hungry._

It’s ridiculous. Of all the things - every single thing Sir trained him for - hunger was never one they could prepare against. His increased metabolism only made matters worse; most days he couldn’t go more than a couple of hours without some type of food, unless he was unconscious.

It’s been somewhere around 2 days.

He’s so fucking hungry.

Sleep - or maybe just plain old unconsciousness - sneaks up on him every other hour. He’s grateful for it. He can’t feel the stabbing pains in his stomach or the weird, airy feeling in his body - like he’s about to gently crumble into a million pieces - when he’s sleeping.

His dreams are filled with gunshots and blood and the aching feeling of something, something, _something._

_—_

“You need to eat.”

Barnes’s voice crackles over the intercom system in the room - cell, really. A nice cell, though. The bed is comfier than his one back at Sir’s base, and the room is cool and refreshing, a nice change from the scorching summer heat outside.

He lifts his head up off the pillow on the bed. It hurts; every single atom in his body hurts. He’s so fucking _hungry._

_Eat nothing offered by them. Anything they give you could be a way to hurt you._

Rule number three of captivity. Or four. He can’t remember.

That’s been a recurring theme, recently. It makes Number Three want to tear his hair out. What’s the point of being so _special_ if he can’t even remember a list of rules?

Nothing. No point.

He swallows what feels like a mouthful of chalk and groans. His stomach hurts. His head hurts. Everything hurts.

Barnes is still standing on the other side of the glass that separates. It’s thick, too thick for him to break through. He couldn’t do it even if he was able to try.

The sergeant is holding a shiny tray. There’s food on it and Number Three’s stomach _clenches._

He won’t escape if he can’t stand. Some concessions have to be made.

What Sir doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“Okay,” he says finally. It feels like he’s talking around a mouthful of razorblades. “Okay.”

Barnes brings in the food and watches him scarf it down. He stays there, on the other side of the glass. His face is unreadable.

Number Three doesn’t bother trying. He just eats in silence.

One rule broken. Who knows how many more will go down the drain by the time he gets out of this cell.

Probably a lot. Sir won’t be pleased.

—

“Let’s start with some simple questions, okay?”

 _Say nothing. Give them nothing to work with._ Now _that’s_ a rule he has no intention of breaking.

He stares at the corner of the room and clenches his jaw. Barnes and Black Widow - Natasha, she introduced herself as - are sitting opposite of him. He’s on his bed, legs crossed and hands clenched in his lap.

“Okay,” Black Widow answers for him. Her hair is sharply cut and dark red and her eyes are hard as steel. She means business.

“Alright,” Barnes’s face is equally set. “What is your name?”

_Give them nothing. Give them nothing._

He stares back silently.

Barnes isn’t phased. He meets his stare perfectly, gaze calm, and suddenly Number Three can’t hold it.

_Something._

“When were you born?”

Silence on his end again. This time because he doesn’t know the answer.

“What are your parents’ names?”

More silence. He doesn’t know.

It doesn’t matter.

Right?

He shoves the uncertainty away. No time for it. No time for hesitation. He has to stay in control.

“Where were you born?”

Nothing. He draws nothing but blanks. Something like the vaguest forms of panic washes over him. _It doesn’t matter_ , he reminds himself. _None of this matters. It’s all irrelevant information._

But he should know. He should know.

“How long have you been in New York?”

Can’t be more than a week. Midtown was recent. Not long.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

Somewhere deep inside him, the panic builds. He clenches his hands harder.

Opposite him, Black Widow sighs. “Would you like something to drink?”

His mouth is dry. Chalky. He nods, once. A jerk of his head.

The faintest hint of something - a smile, maybe? - crosses the ex-assassin’s face.

He’s not sure. He’s not sure.

—

“What is your name?”

_Number Three._

He stares stonily back at his interrogators. They look tired and frustrated. Satisfaction ripples through him, but it’s dull.

“Kid, come on.” Desperation is heavy in Barnes’s voice. “If only for our personal reference and nothing else. What is your name?”

_My name is Number Three._

_My name is Number Three._

_My name is_ Number Three _._

Black Widow’s face twists and Barnes shoots her a sidelong glance. He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be communicating.

_He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t -_

No. He breathes our forcefully. He knows who he is. His name is Number Three. That’s all he needs to know.

They cannot take who he is away from him. That will always be in his control.  

Across the room from him, Black Widow folds her hands in her lap. Her face is cooly determined.

“Your name is Peter Parker.”

He blinks and suddenly all he can see is concrete and dust and blood and water and his chest constricts like he’s suffocating, he’s suffocating; he’s going to fail, he’s going to _fail_.

He shakes his head. _Stay in control._

But he can’t. Flashes. Faces. He knows. He knows - where he is, who he is; he knows it all. He _knows._

Blank spaces. Gaps. Too many gaps - _he knows that name, he knows who that is, he_ knows - too many questions, too many absences where the answers should be.

_Your name is Peter Parker._

No. No. He shakes his head, gritting his teeth. _My name is Number Three. My name is Number Three. My name is Number -_

 _Liar_ , something inside him hisses. He knows. He _knows._

No, no. He doesn’t. He _doesn’t._

_My name is Number Three._

Lie. Lie.

He grits his teeth and stares Black Widow down unflinchingly.

Silence. Silence and blank spaces and nothing.

—

The next thing he remembers, he’s lying on the floor of the holding cell, face turned to the corner.

He blinks and doesn’t move.

He can’t remember how he got there. He can’t remember.

“Hello?” he says, more to himself than to anyone outside, more to see if his voice still works. Silence meets his words, heavy and unrelenting.

He can’t remember when the last time he talked was.

He can’t remember anything.

It hurts, his voice. Feels like he’s been screaming, like his throat is raw and shredded and barely working.

Maybe he has been. Not like he can remember.

The walls of the cell are a light grey color. Outside the room, he can’t see much. The lights are off; the walls and furniture and shapes have blended into indistinguishable dark masses.

He blinks again and rolls over into his back.

The lights glare down at him. He swallows.

_My name is -_

He stops before he finishes the thought. Something about saying it feels wrong now.

—

“Can you tell me about why you’re here?”

Back on the bed attached to the wall. He’s wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, drawing it tightly around him. It’s cold in the cell now. Probably intentionally.

He ignores the question. Stares at Black Widow’s kneecap. She’s wearing black jeans and black boots and a slightly less black shirt. Really living up to her name.

He smirks a little at that. The muscles in his face feel stiff and unused to the action.

“What’s so funny?” she asks. Not accusingly. Her voice is filled with genuine curiosity and maybe it’s that, maybe it’s the fact that in all his days and months and years - maybe - of living with Sir, the man never so much as asked him what he found amusing. Maybe it just catches him off guard.

So he speaks, in a voice that is harsh and raspy and unused. “Your name is Black Widow and you’re wearing all black.”

He looks up at her and she’s smiling. Her eyes are burning with something fierce and intense and the rational part of him is screaming, _screaming_ that _he’s_ _breaking the rules, he’s breaking the rules, he’s_ talking _and he’s going to get killed for this, he’s being stupid_ but it’s too late now. He clenches his hands, nails biting into his palm.

“It’s Natasha,” she says. Her voice is soft.

_Natasha._

The look on her face feels familiar. Familiar and yet totally foreign.

_Give up nothing. Say nothing else._

He blinks her gaze away and returns to staring at her knee; meeting every single one of her following questions with a stony face.

—

“What is your name?”

Barnes now. It’s the question they keep returning to. He supposes it’s a good place to start. If they can get him to say that, they can get him to keep talking.

Theoretically.

“What is your name?”

He’s not sure how many days it’s been. The lights outside turn on and off routinely - he’s counted four rotations - but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

He’s examined every inch of the holding cell, every single crack and fissure and nook and cranny and corner and space. He’s memorized it all, fixed it’s blueprint and floorplan onto his brain. Up there with the Iron Man mask. Up there with the phrase _my name is Number Three._

He’s calculated every possible escape plan. All of them, given his current array of tools and capabilities, are impossible.

“What is your name?”

It’s doing something to him, captivity. His skin is crawling and the lights feel too bright and the constant feeling of _something_ hands over him like a blanket of fog. Thick and heavy and permeating. He can barely breathe around it.

_It’s Natasha._

He _knows._ He doesn’t know what he knows but he knows he knows.

It’s maddening. This room is maddening.

“What is your name?”

_My name is Number Three._

_Your name is Peter Parker._

He closes his eyes. He knows, he knows, he knows.

But he doesn’t.

_Maddening._

—

“Do you know what your name is?”

Maybe it’s the phrasing. Maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t eaten in a day evayae he refuses the plate of dinner - breakfast? lunch? - Captain America tried to bring him. Maybe it’s because he’s tired - _so tired_ \- and every single dream he’s has made no sense and left him with a headache and an empty feeling running through him. Maybe it’s the realization that’s been creeping up on him that tells him that, broken rules or not, Sir will still kill him when he escapes. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s not even a _when_ , it’s an _if._ Maybe it’s just weakness; a weakness that’s been growing stronger and stronger along with the _something_ ever since he came to this goddamn Tower and this goddamn cell.

It’s probably the weakness. It’s pathetic - _he’s_ pathetic.

He was born and raised a weapon. Born and raised to have no flaws, no catches, no missteps. He’s supposed to be infallible; he’s supposed to be _strong._ He’s supposed to be better than breaking after four-odd days of the vaguest excuse for interrogation.

But he’s not.

So he answers.

“My name is Number Three.”

—

The next day - if it even is the next day - Barnes and Black Widow - he still isn’t calling her Natasha; something about it feels wrong - come in carrying a weird contraption. It looks like a headband with a bunch of sensors dangling off of it.

He gives it a wary look. It reminds him chillingly of the thing back at Sir’s base. The thing used for “wipes,” whatever those are.

He doesn’t remember being subjected to it much, but he remembers it _hurting_ when he was.

The pair must’ve picked up on his unease. They give each other twin looks of _something_ and Black Widow holds up a hand.

“This isn’t going to hurt at all, okay?” she says. “It’s just a brain monitor. We’re going to put it on you and ask some questions, okay?”

They won’t use his name. All the time and effort they put into getting it out of him and they won’t even call him by it.

It’s stupid and pointless, but that’s the Avengers for you.

He shouldn’t have told them. He doesn’t know what he had been _thinking._

Weak. A stupid, _stupid_ moment of weakness.

Before he can so much as protest, Barnes is walking toward him and a chill of fear - stupid, _stupid,_ he’s so weak and _stupid_ \- leaves him unable to move away as the thing is strapped around his forehead and the sensors are put in place.

He narrows his eyes at the man as he takes his seat again. Barnes meets it calmly and resentment burns in his stomach. _Fuck_ them for keeping him in here. They’re going to be so sorry when he gets out.

When. _When._

“Do you know who Adrian Toomes is?”

No. He doesn’t. He glares harder.

“Do you know the organization HYDRA?”

He doesn’t.

“Have you ever worked with either?”

No. He doesn’t know.

“Can you tell me anything about the Sokovia Accords?”

He knows Sokovia. Not the accords. He feels like he should.

“How about Germany?”

It’s a country. He knows that. The way the question is phrased makes him feel like there’s more to it. There probably is. It’s irrelevant. If Sir didn’t tell him, it’s not important.

“Do you recall the fight in Germany?”

_He was in a fight in Germany?_

“Do you know who Ned Leeds is?”

He doesn’t.

“Do you know who Michelle Jones is?”

He doesn’t.

“Do you know who Liz Allan is?”

He doesn’t.

A sigh. Some scratching on a clipboard.

“Do you know who Anthony Stark is?”

_Something._

_Something, something, something_.

He tries - tries so hard - to grab onto it. Sink his teeth into the feeling and hold it down long enough to dissect it; long enough until he can rip it to pieces and throw it out of his brain

_Goatee and warm eyes and warm hands and the smell of machine oil and coffee grinds and -_

Then it’s gone.

He doesn’t know. _He doesn’t know._

—

They bring the brain scanner back later. It still hasn’t hurt hi yet. He’s surprised.

They ask him a slew of questions. About people whose names feel unfamiliar and heavy in the back of his brain. A lot about ones named Ned and Michelle. And May - May Parker. A few about someone named Liz. A few about someone named Flash. More about Germany - they just say the word like it has some huge significance; it’s lost on him - more about something they’re calling Homecoming, more about a mugging he doesn’t remember and a funeral he doesn’t remember and a bunker he doesn’t remember.

A lot about Anthony Stark.

He doesn’t remember. He _can’t._

He falls asleep after they leave and his dreams are filled with things he can’t remember when he wakes up. His cheeks are wet.

He doesn’t even have the energy to be angry at himself for crying. He just rolls into his side, back pressed against the cold walls of the cold, stupid cell.

His dreams the next time around aren’t any better.

—

They left the intercom on.

Barnes has turned it on to ask him if he wanted dinner; he had said yes, finally. Then he had left forgetting to turn it back off.

It’s several hours later and his stomach hurts substantially less.

And the intercom is on and two people - the figures of Barnes and Captain America, he thinks - are standing by the door of the outside room. It’s dark, and he can’t see their faces. They probably can’t see his, either.

“How are you?” says the first voice. Less familiar, higher and softer. Captain America’s.

There’s soft shuffling and the figures merge into one. A hig, maybe.

They stay like that for a while and something inside Number Three twists a little

“It’ll be okay,” says CaptainAmerica.

“He still hasn’t woken up,” says Barnes and his voice is worlds different from the calm and confident tone he always has during the question sessions.

“I know.”

“I’m scared. It’s not him.”

That confuses him. James Buchanan Barnes - the _Winter Soldier_ \- is scared?

“It won’t be like this forever,” Captain America says. His voice is gentle. “It wasn’t for you.”

“It’s different.”

A sigh. Long and heavy. “I know.”

“Stevie -”

_Stevie?_

“It’s okay, Bucky. It’s okay.”

_Bucky? Who the hell is Bucky?_

The figures embrace again and Number Three rolls over. He feels bad for watching, like he’s intruding on something deep and dark and private.

He still doesn’t understand and, for the first time, he’s not sure if he wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah peter is Not having a good time in there...poor dude. also bucky and nat is a godtire that we were robbed of into movies can u imagine how powerful they’d b together just sayin
> 
> sry this is so jumpy zzzz supposed to be representative of peter’s mental state and how he is Confused and Not doing well. hope it makes sense and flows ok!! also that shout out to tws tho. was it smooth enough
> 
> (pete n tony are gonna meet soon fear not. actually probably still fear. gonna b a lot of Angst)


	14. tired

Ned and MJ are supposed to arrive late the next evening. 

Rhodey, true to his word, let Tony  _ finally  _ get up after he forced out a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. In a situation where nightmares have become a routine, it’s almost unsettling for him to wake up after five or so hours of total unconsciousness, but he does it all the same. 

He doesn’t feel any less tired, though. Seems kind of pointless, then. 

But still. The universe waits for no one, certainly not a vaguely exhausted Tony Stark so, come morning, he almost flung himself out of bed and immediately got to pestering Rhodey about going to talk to Peter. 

He was met with the same unrelenting resolve. 

“No.” Was all Rhodey had given him, but the finality in that two-letter word - plus the exhaustion;  _ plus _ the persistent selfishness that continued telling him he wasn’t ready to face Peter yet - made him abandon his efforts at getting his friend to crack. 

But he couldn’t just sit around and do nothing; they had established that last night. So he gets to work doing one of the things he knows best - damage control. 

Steve’s on it too - Rhodey is dealing with some “military things” - code for work stuff he’s legally not allowed to tell Tony and will be very annoyed if he starts pestering him about it - and Natasha and Bucky are in and out of the holding cell where Peter is, asking him question after question. 

Or rather, where Number Three is. 

No time to think about that. Damage control awaits. 

It’s easy enough - definitely aided by the fact that Tony’s spent more time doing it than sleeping in the past decade. Some neighbors - god, Tony hates his neighbors with a passion - has questions about why there had been shooting noises to deal with. The press that had been subsequently informed of the shooting noises by his stupid,  _ stupid  _ neighbors also had some questions that needed prompt deflection. The press also had the ususal questions about all things Peter - those Tony either let Steve deal with, or answered as calmly as he could muster while stabbing the end of a pencil into his desk repeatedly. There was also Midtown to work with: financing clean up, trying in vain to calm the anxious King T’Challa down over yet another vibranium-induced explosion, making sure all those still in hospital were doing okay, making sure all those who had died were being properly commemorated, trying in vain to not think about how Peter had killed twenty eight people - thirty, now; two more had died in hospital - though that was more of a self-imposed task than anything, and finally deflecting any questions from the press about the attack. 

“No...no, we are still unaware of who committed the attack,” Steve’s voice sounds from across the room. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose and only looks like he wants to punch a hole though the wall just a little. “Yes, of course we are looking…no, I can assure you this will not become a routine occurrence…well, we know that because we’re actively putting in defenses and - yes, we don’t know who it is, but - and she hung up on me.”

Steve sets the phone down, normally impassive face twisting into one of irritation mingled with guilt. Tony stows his own phone - he had been checking for business reports from Pepper; she’s at some urgent conference in Berlin to discuss stocks and future plans and a billion other things Tony can’t even begin to wrap his head around - and grimaces at the captain. 

“Who was that?”

Steve sighs. “Parent from Midtown. Her kid was fine, but she was still a little concerned. Understandably.” 

The last phrase sounds more like an afterthought. Tony sighs and checks the clock. 

It’s almost six. 

“What’s on tonight for you?” Steve asks, carefully studying his nails. It takes a moment for Tony to realize that the captain probably thinks he’s talking to Peter soon and is, in his characteristically subtle-not-subtle way, trying to trap Tony into a conversation about it. 

He rolls his eyes. Internally. “Peter’s friends are coming over.”

Some of the tension goes out of Steve - seems Rhodey’s not alone in his thinking that Tony’s not stable enough to be within five feet of the kid, then - and he cracks a tiny smile. “Didn’t have you down for hanging out with teenagers off the clock, Tony.”

_ Nope,  _ he thinks,  _ just the one _ . But then that thought makes him irrevocably sad, so he does his best to shove it away. “Ha, ha,” he intones, though he can’t find a single thing that’s remotely amusing about the current situation. “It’s not for fun, believe me. They just don’t know about the - you know.”

Because Steve does know, so he doesn’t have to say it, because in some senseless, totally-in-denial part of his tired and aching brain, not saying it makes it just a little less real. 

The look of pure sympathy that crosses Steve’s face takes away all that. Tony debates screaming before settling on clenching his fists and breathing out carefully through his nose. He hasn’t broken down yet, and he has no intention of doing so in the future. He is Tony Stark; he is Iron Man; he is and always will be in control of himself and his emotions. 

It’s a lie, and not even a good one. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says and Tony will not break, he will not break, he  _ will not break.  _ “I - do you want me to be there while you do it?”

For a moment he almost says yes. Their past is marred with scars and fissures running deeper than Tony can even see and the unhelpfully-dubbed Civil War is always in the backs of their minds, as much as they gloss over it, but Steve is also, well,  _ Steve _ . Tony trusts - maybe trusted, he’s not entirely sure yet - him with his life. Plus his impassiveness and general calm manner would probably be helpful when breaking the news to two teenagers that their best friend couldn’t remember his own name, much less theirs. 

But it’s Tony’s job - it’s his mess in the first place; he might as well be the one to clean it up - so he shakes his head a little. 

“I’m good,” he says with entirely too much confidence. “It’ll be quick anyways - Mother Rhodey has given me a curfew, apparently.”

Steve snorts. “When?”

“Nine,” Tony replies, rolling his eyes because it so parental, so nurturing, so  _ Rhodey _ that he can’t even genuinely annoyed. “I have to be well rested for tomorrow, apparently.”

Steve’s breath is audible as he continues staring at the corner of the desk they’re seated at with extreme interest. He has a weird thing about eye contact: either everything to Steve is a veritable starting match and a loss would result in him getting shot on sight, or something or he can’t look within five feet of Tony. “That’s tomorrow, then?”

An obvious question. Tony knows what he’s doing. “Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis.

Steve frowns. “Will you be okay?”

Tony grinds his teeth a little. Sure, the selfishness tells him he’s not ready and the snarling voice in the back of his head tells him he’s too weak, but it’s annoying as hell hearing a combination of the two from someone else. 

“I’ll be fine.”

Steve picks up on his tone and frowns more. “I wasn’t insinuating you aren’t ready, I just -”

“Save it, please,” he says, holding up a hand. That only makes Steve look more vaguely distressed. Of course. 

“Tony -” he begins and Tony has not broken yet and he will not do it now. 

“Steve.” Short and final. But the man won’t be dissuaded unless he gives some genuine honestly -  _ and what else do you have to lose at this point? _ the voice in his head questions - so he sighs and grips his hands in his lap and looks anywhere but Steve. “I am holding on by a thread right now and, trust me, I would absolutely adore to tell you all about how thin said thread is wearing, but I’ve got two teenagers coming in - well, soon, probably - and I really,  _ really  _ do not have time for a meltdown now.”

Steve blinks and Tony keeps talking because apparently he’s just straight up obnoxious as well as weak and selfish. 

“I just - they need stability. We  _ all  _ do, and I caused this mess, so the least I can do is, you know, fix it, or whatever. Or, if I can’t do that - which I can’t - then the least I can do is make it more manageable for everyone else involved.”

Steve sighs again - he should start keeping a tally - and pins Tony down with his gaze. It’s blue and calm and reminds Ton of the ocean, of Malibu, of summertime, of the ice in a bunker hidden deep somewhere in Siberia and a shield sticking out of his chest. The good is inseparable with the bad. 

“How is this your fault?” His voice is soft, gentle, and  _ Stark men are made of steel, Stark men are made of steel.  _

“I was supposed to protect him,” he says. His voice is shaky and it figures because Tony was never really a Stark through and through.  _ Sensitive  _ had been Maria’s word of choice.  _ A sissy _ had been Howard’s. They both mean the same thing -  _ weak _ and Tony knows that, if nothing, Stark men are not weak. 

They also don’t fail, which he has done, countless times. The kid sitting in the holding cell is living, breathing proof of that and it makes his stomach turn inside out. 

“You did,” Steve says softly and he  _ just doesn’t get it.  _

Tony grits his teeth against the part of him that wants to believe Steve because, out of all the bad lies he’s heard recently, that one is the worst. “No, I didn’t, I - god, Steve,  _ he’s a kid.  _ He’s  _ sixteen _ . And I made the promise to him - I  _ swore -  _ that I wouldn’t let anything happen. After Germany, after Toomes all of it. I sat the kid down and I told him that the bad things were finished, that I was here now and I would fucking  _ protect  _ him. And he  _ believed  _ me - he  _ trusted  _ I would keep that promise and of fucking  _ course  _ I couldn’t and now he’s been through hell and back and he might not even  _ be  _ back, from what Nat and Bucky are saying and it’s so - it’s because of me, Steve. It’s because I couldn’t keep my stupid promise.”

It sounds even more melodramatic and self-pitying outside of his head, but he’s too tired to say anything more about it. 

Steve isn’t, though, because he’s Steve. His frown deepens. 

“Did you shoot the kid?” he asks

“No.” This feels off topic. 

“Did you brainwash the kid?”

“No, but -”

“Did the kid bomb those places because of you?”

“No -”

“Did you force or coerce or order or ask anyone to do any of those things to the kid?”

“ _ Steve _ .”

“Did you?” Steve is unrelenting. Tony grits his teeth and forces a single ‘no’ out from in between them. Steve leans back - Tony hadn’t even noticed he had shifted so far forward over the course of the conversation - and spreads his hands, looking a little satisfied. 

“Then there you have it,” he says, like it’s the most simple thing in the world. 

Except, you know, it isn’t at all because Peter isn’t Peter anymore and just because it wasn’t Tony’s finger on the trigger - both the metaphorical and real one - doesn’t mean it isn’t his fault. He opens his mouth to tell Steve - or maybe to just cry; he’s not sure yet - when Friday crackles to life somewhere above them, cutting him off. 

“Mr. Leeds and Miss Jones are waiting in the living room for you, sir.”

Tony’s stomach drops to his knees. “Okay,” he hears himself say. “Tell them I’ll be there in a sec.” 

He ignores the captain’s pointed glance as he stands up and makes his way to the door. 

He’s not sure if the man tries to speak as he’s leaving. He decides he doesn’t want to hear it and makes his way to the living room. Steve is biased; Civil War or not, they’re still friends and Steve keeps high opinions of those he calls friends. He wouldn’t ever admit that this mess is on Tony’s head because Steve likes Tony and that therefore makes him substantially more infallible. 

Not to say Steve’s an idiot, or easily blindsighted. The opposite, really. But he’s always had a knack for diffusing Tony’s past mistakes on the grounds that he’s ‘changed,’ or whatever. Tony snorts at the idea, hurrying up a flight of stairs. Changed or not, it’s still on him. Steve’s refusal to see it is not his business. 

Though the selfish,  _ selfish  _ bit of him wants to believe the man so bad. 

He shoves that down; puts it in a tiny locked box in the back of his chest and tosses the key somewhere for later. Guilt is a good motivator and he can work on self-forgiveness when they have Peter - the  _ real  _ Peter - back, not before. 

He pauses at the door of the living room. He can hear quiet voices, murmured talking, and it’s Ned and MJ - it has to be. 

Suddenly he’s very afraid. 

_ Stark men are made of steel,  _ he repeats to himself, hand clenching the doorknob.  _ Stark men do not feel fear.  _

And then he opens the door. 

They’re sitting there, pressed together on one of the small couches. They look up as Tony walks in - trying in vain to retain his air of control and confidence - and MJ arches an eyebrow. Skepticism bordering on outright mistrust and dislike radiates off her. The same sort of awe comes off Ned, but he can sense a jadedness to it too. They’re disappointed in him, he realizes, and it hits harder than he thought it would. 

_ You failed,  _ the voice reminds him, all cold smiles and gnashing teeth.  _ What did you expect? _

He’s not sure, so he doesn’t answer. Instead, he claps his hands together to signal his entrance - like they hadn’t noticed already - and flashes the teens an aborted attempt at a smile. His face muscles feel stiff with unuse. 

“Ned, MJ,” he says in a voice that doesn’t sound like his. Too confident. “Glad to see you.”

He’s not, and he’s sure that feeling is mutual. MJ’s annoyed expression is a testament to that. 

“Happy said it was urgent?” Ned prompts, breaking the ice. “Said there’s been some developments?”

His voice is forced neutral, forced calm. He’s keeping his hopes down. 

And then - helpfully enough - Tony realizes he’s about to shatter whatever shred of faith the kids have in both him and Peter’s safe return. Suddenly he needs to sit down. 

He does, in a chair opposite them. He crosses his ankles and clenches his hands and folds his fingers together like the connection of all his limbs can somehow act as a barrier between him and the kids. Or as a protection; as a means of corralling the wave of guilt and exhaustion and fear that’s been threatening to explode out of him for what seems like ever. 

“Yes,” is his helpful response, and MJ’s expression darkens. 

_ “What _ developments?” she says, voice icy and unrelenting and unsettlingly like Pepper’s when she’s angry. 

“He’s here -” is all he gets out and then Ned and MJ are on their feet in an instant. Ned’s eyes rove around the room like Peter is hiding behind a piece of furniture. MJ stares him down; the note in he gaze suggesting he produce her friend from wherever he is  _ or else.  _

He exhales forcefully. Now comes for the dashing-their-hopes bit. “No, okay, slow your roll, both of you. Sit down.”

He sounds parental and commanding and he hates it. So do the kids, who give him twin expressions of confusion mingled with hesitation. 

“I - I’m sorry Mr. Stark, sir,” says Ned, looking bewildered. His eyes are wide and the shadows underneath them remind him hauntingly of how Peter looked just following the first mess with Toomes; tired and anxious and uncertain and just so  _ tired.  _ They’re just kids. They’re all just kids and  _ none of this  _ is fair. “I’m sorry, but you can’t just, like, drop that on us and then tell us to  _ sit down _ . I - we - we wanna -  _ gotta  _ \- see him and -”

Tony holds up a hand. “I understand completely. Trust me.”

MJ audibly scoffs. “It’s been days, Stark. You said you’d keep us posted.”

He runs the back of his neck harshly. He did say that. “Yeah. It’s - yeah. Things have been a little - well, okay,” he flounders and,  _ god,  _ this night he the shittiest explanation he’s ever given. “The kid - Peter - is here. In a holding cell.”

MJ doesn’t miss a beat. She takes half a step towards where Tony’s sitting and he almost -  _ almost _ \- flinches back. “You can’t do that,” she snaps. “He’s a minor. He’s sixteen. I know you’re Tony fucking Stark and all that, but he’s still a child. You can’t just throw him in a cell and act like you’re done with it.”

Tony grits his teeth. “I did not  _ throw him in a cell.  _ He was  _ put  _ there for his own saftey, as well as ours.”

“What do you mean?” Concern spikes through Ned’s voice and the almost-healed hole in Tony’s stomach aches and he’s really going to have to do this, isn’t he?

“He shot me,” he says - forces our, really. He might as well be blunt about it. “Five - five? - days ago.”

Ned’s mouth drops open a fraction. MJ, looking torn between confusion and disbelief, steps back. 

“Yeah.” Tony grimaces. “So, yeah. Forgive the, uh, absence, but I only just woke up yesterday evening.”

“Shit, Mr. Stark,” says Ned, looking panickedly between him and MJ. “Shit - uh, sorry, shoot, we should - MJ, we should go, right? Let you get some rest - I’m sorry, but oh my  _ god _ ,  _ Peter _ shot you?”

The disbelief in his voice hits home. Tony doesn’t even think it’s true either. 

But he nods all the same because reality is reality and he doesn’t have a shred left of anything in him that is capable of downplaying this situation. “Yeah. So, while I’ve been unconscious, my good friends Natasha Romanov and Bucky Barnes - you know them, right? - have been running some tests. Nothing painful or invasive or in any way violating his rights. Just some questions and brain scans. We - okay.” Breathe.  _ Breathe. _ “There’s not an easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it, okay? As far as we can tell, Peter has been brainwashed. He doesn’t remember anything from before the last six months - that includes me, you guys, Homecoming, the Germany fight, Spider-man, Ben, May, all of it. It seems his short-term memory receptors have been, well, fried. A lot. Repeatedly. He can’t remember anything, apparently. And it  _ also _ seems apparent that the person behind this - at least to a certain degree - is Adrian Toomes.”

Ned sucks in a breath. “He - he’s in prison,” he says and his voice is scarily calm. Disbelieving. Because there is no way Toomes is out and back and hurting Peter even more than the first time - there is no way this is _ real.  _ Tony knows he  _ himself  _ doesn’t even believe it, and he was the one who got fucking shot by the kid. 

“Was,” MJ mutters, more to herself than Tony and Ned. “There was a breakout report on the news - didn’t say who - I thought - fuck, I  _ didn’t  _ think, I should’ve -”

He shakes his head, cutting her off. “Nope. None of that. I currently own the monopoly on the self-blame department, thank you very much. But, yeah. That’s it, basically. I - Bucky and Nat have had little success with getting things out of him. Toomes has drilled it into him pretty good to keep his mouth shut.”

“Have you talked to him?” MJ asks. Her voice is small. Beside her, Ned’s face has gone slack. 

He shakes his head. 

“How - what - I don’t understand.” Ned shakes his head. Looks between Tony and MJ, like either of the will have an answer he wants to hear and this isn’t fair;  _ none of this  _ is fucking fair. “He’s - Mr. Stark, he’s  _ Peter.  _ He’s - he’s Spider-man! He -”

“He thinks Spider-man is dead,” says Tony flatly because none of this can get worse, really. Ned physically recoils. 

MJ blinks, long and slow and it is so, so hard for Tony to fathom that less than a year ago Peter was probably curled up in one of the chairs in the lab, gushing about how smart and funny and talented and  _ cool _ MJ is to him while he he worked on some random project. It seems so unreal that that was a life Tony had lived; that  _ that  _ had been his reality. Now his reality consists of one teenager who will probably shoot him given another opportunity, another teenager who looks close to tears and a third one looking like she’s just had the world wrenched our from underneath her feet. 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair and he sounds like a child for repeating it over and over again but it’s just not fucking fair on any of them. 

Especially Ned. Especially MJ. 

“What’s his name?” she says and Tony cannot do this. He inhales and exhales, counting the seconds between the breaths and  _ Peter is gone, Peter is gone, Peter is gone and it’s all his fault.  _ “Tony?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, scrubbing at his face with his hand. The other hands limply at his side and it feels so heavy and he’s so fucking  _ tired.  _ “He - not Peter, obviously. Number Three now. He - yeah. Yeah.”

“That was Peter’s favorite number,” Ned says in the smallest voice possible and Tony’s heart cracks open into a million jagged pieces in his chest right there and then. 

MJ switches tracks unbelievably quick. She rounds her gaze back on him and narrows her eyes. “Where is he?”

“I’m not taking you to see Pe -”

“Toomes,” she snarls, cutting him off. “Where the fuck is Toomes?”

Tony almost laughs - almost; he’s not sure if he can even do that still. “Trust me,” he says, and the bitterness in his voice surprises him just as much as it does the kids, whose expressions contort a little. “When I find him, you guys will be the last people I send over to flay him alive.”

“We can handle ourselves, thanks,” MJ bites back and Tony just cocks an eyebrow. 

“You’re sixteen.” They’re children. Peter was a child - he still is. A child. Tony put a  _ child _ through all of this. 

“So was Peter,” she snaps and something inside Tony snaps right back. 

He bites back a scream. “I’m aware,” he says in a voice of forced calm and MJ’s gaze burns a hole right through and she’s angry, so fucking angry and Ned just looks defeated and Tony is so,  _ so  _ tired. “I am very aware Peter is a child.”

“Really?” MJ says acidly. “Because -”

Ned holds up a hand, places it on her shoulder. He leans in and murmurs something in her ear and Tony just sits there and watches as her face contorts with the all-too-familiar looks of grief and frustration and pain before the mask of cold anger falls back into place. She steps forward again, her knees almost bumping into his, and looks down at him. 

Her gaze is like ice. It goes straight through him, straight through the hole in his chest. He barely even feels it

His stomach hurts and his head hurts and he’s tired. He’s so tired. 

“Bring him back.” Is all she says and then she’s gone, storming out of the door and slamming it behind her. Ned looks anxiously at Tony, eyes wide and just a hint of red-rimmed. 

“I - I’m  _ so  _ sorry, Mr. Stark, she - I - that was - she’s normally not like that. She - it’s just been hard. It’s been really hard and she’s bad at, like, feelings, I guess and - I don’t know. I don’t know.”

There’s been a lonof that going around, then. Tony waves a hand half-heartedly.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says and  _ that  _ he means because the last thing he wants Ned to have to feel right now is any more worry. “I’m sorry too, I - I realize this situation is - well, far from ideal. Bu, please, don’t worry about it. I promise we’ll get him back, okay? I promise.”

An understament of the year and a promise he probably won’t keep, if his track record is anything to go by. 

Ned looks a little comforted, though. Small victories. “Okay. Yeah, okay, I should - you know.” He makes a vague wave towards the direction where MJ ran off to and Tony nods. 

“Of course,” he says and he’s still shocked at how level his voice has stayed. “I’ll let you know if there’s any more developments, okay?”

Ned nods and then he’s gone, out the same door MJ left from and suddenly Tony’s alone. 

He checks the clock. 7:00 

His stomach twists; twists with the thought of Peter in the cell and Peter not knowing his own name and Peter shooting him and the look on MJ’s face when she fold him to bring her friend back and the look - the tired,  _ tired _ look on Ned’s face as he apologized and he squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as he can, like it will block out the ongoing tirade of guilt and exhaustion and pain. 

It doesn’t. His stomach still aches and the hole in his chest still widens by the second and, by this time tomorrow, he will have sat down with the kid who can’t remember his name and who tried to shoot him and he really doesn’t know how that makes him feel. 

Not very good, that’s for sure. 

Six months and twenty two days ago, Peter Parker was shot theee times in the back of the head. He died. Everyone thought he did -  _ Tony  _ thought he did. They held the funeral to prove it - closure, his ass. 

But Peter did not die. Peter is still living and breathing and there are no bullets in his head as he sits one floor down somewhere in the holding cells Tony had installed. 

For criminals. For dangers. For things that could hurt them. 

And Peter is all three of those things and, the more Tony thinks about it, the more he realizes that maybe Peter Parker  _ did _ die on the floor of that bunker all those months ago. 

In the emptiness and silence of the living room, that thought makes Tony’s heart crack open even more. The pieces are everywhere, falling into the gutter, and the only thing he knows will fix is is sitting in a holding cell and he doesn’t even remember Tony’s name. 

He sits there, thinking and thinking and thinking, until Rhodey comes, forces him off to bed. 

He does not sleep at all that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sry this is such a Bad chapter idk why...it was very hard to write for no reason at all! i do love that! i promise next one will b better you all are finally going to get the tony peter meeting content you deserve....get hyped 
> 
> also. Sry mj’s characterization is Ass here i feel like she’s coming off wrong idk she is just Very Stressed bc of peter...sry if i made her really mean seeming or smthin😕


	15. talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here u guys go....chapter you’ve all been waiting for....enjoy:-)
> 
> (also. support i got on the last chap blew me away. i can’t respond to comments right now but y’all are the sweetest i love u guys sm ok)

He wakes up in the same bed in the med bay with light pooling in from the big bay windows. It throws everything into stark relief, casting shadows across the polished floor. 

For a second, he’s not sure why dread is resting so heavily in his stomach it feels like he finally  _ has _ been stapled to the bed, but then he remembers. 

He’s talking to Peter today. 

_ Now _ . He’s talking to Peter now. 

For a second he doesn’t move - the dread makes that hard enough by itself - and just lays there. He stares at the ceiling, stares at the different tile panels and the bumps of paint and gentle cracks and wonders if, if he’s very, very lucky, the ceiling would collapse down on him and put an end to everything. 

He wouldn’t complain. 

_ Even if it meant not seeing Peter?  _ the voice questions. It’s cold and vaguely menacing as always and Tony is getting so sick of it. He grits his teeth and shoves the question aside. 

Pointless to even ask because the ceiling will, funnily enough,  _ not  _ collapse down on him and he will  _ not  _ die within the next twenty minutes - the universe has never answered any of his other prayers, after all; why would it suddenly answer that one?  - and he  _ will  _ go talk to Peter. Scared and apprehensive and outright dreading whatever will happen, he will never look himself in the mirror again if he pushes this aside, even for just another day. 

It’s his mess to fix. Peter is his mess to fix and he can’t fucking fix if he’s laying motionless in a hospital gurney. 

He’s just standing up, trying and failing to not wince against the persisting stiffness in his stomach, when footsteps sound at the end of the room. He looks up from his curled-up sitting position at the end of the bed - because, determined as he is, his stomach fucking  _ hurts  _ when he moves suddenly - and Bucky walks over. 

He’s dressed in all black, boots well-polished and tapping lightly against the floor. His metal arm glints in the sun, throwing patterns of light against the walls as he moves. His hair is drawn back into a bun that Tony knows for a  _ fact  _ makes Steve walk into walls and generally stop functioning like a person. He almost smiles at that. Almost. 

He also looks tired. Tired like Steve, tired like Ned, tired like Tony himself. 

_ Your fault.  _

“Morning,” he says, finally managing to straighten up without looking like he’s being stabbed multiple times. He gives the soldier a grin-grimace. 

Bucky nods. Ever the man of few words and even fewer facial expressions. 

“How are you?” he asks, stopping about a foot away from Tony and folding his hands in front of him. His tone is businesslike and clipped on the surface, but Tony can sense the undercurrent of gentle concern and sympathy. It doesn’t annoy him in the same way Steve, or someone, adopting that tone would, and he’s not sure why. 

Maybe it’s because he knows Bucky understands; understands even better than Tony might. 

He shrugs, because if Bucky can do him the decency of coming here and helping with Peter and not murdering Tony with his bare hands for dragging him into this whole mess, then at least Tony can do him the decency of not lying. “Not the best, but, you know.”

Bucky nods again. “Is your stomach okay?”

That he can nod to. Tight and painful as it may be, it feels words better than yesterday. Or when he got shot in the first place. “Yeah. Yeah, it’ll be fine.”

Bucky nods. His eyes have a permanently guarded expression, like he’s constantly on edge; like he’s constantly waiting for someone to turn around and start shooting at him. It’s the only physical remnant of the Winter Soldier left in him. 

Mental, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask; he knows Bucky wouldn’t want to answer. 

“Should we - ?” The soldier motions toward the door and Tony nods, standing up all the way. His stomach protests a little but he barely registers it. He feels far away all of a sudden. 

The walk is quick. He barely processes any of it. Like the funeral, like the out-of-body moments from before Peter returned from the dead; he’s barely present for any of it, can barely remember how he got from point A to point B. 

He’s realizing, bit by bit, that feeling is applying to a lot more than just his momentary blackouts. The lack of understanding as to how he got here; how things got this bad in such a short amount of time. 

Six months is not long - even though it feels like he’s lived a million lifetimes these past months. Less than a year ago, he was having regular lab nights with Peter and listening to the kid talk his ass off about everything under the sun. Less than a year ago he wouldn’t have ever  _ dreamed  _ \- not even in his worst nightmares about the kid; those were all to preoccupied with him dying, or something equally horrific - of something like this taking place. If someone had come up to him and told him that, one day, he’d have to put Peter in one of his maximum security holding cells after the kid went berserk and tried to kill him, he would’ve slapped that person into next week. 

And yet. 

Because there’s always an  _ and yet _ , isn’t there? Always a catch. 

And yet, Bucky still stops at the familiar, heavy-looking door and punches in the passcode and, after a series of clicking noise, shoves it open for Tony. 

And yet, this is all real. All real. Peter is not Peter and this is all so, so horrifyingly real. 

The room is dimly lit. He can just make out the shadow of Peter inside his cell - behind inches and inches of Hulk-resistant glass; it is a cell for potential dangers, after all - curled up. 

His chest aches. 

He misses Peter. He fucking misses Peter.  _ His  _ Peter. 

“Tony?” 

Bucky’s voice is soft and snaps him out of his thoughts like a rubber band. He shakes his head a little - the ache still persists, of course - and turns to look at the man. 

And he looks so, so tired and Tony’s viciously reminded of how it was once Bucky in this position and how god-awful it must be for him to relive this all over from a sideline perspective and,  _ god,  _ this is all Tony’s fault. 

“Yeah?” he says, a little breathlessly, guilt rising up and filling his lungs with a slow trickle. 

It’s only then that he realizes Bucky is holding something out to him. He takes it, turning it over in his hands and holding it up to the dull light. 

It’s a hat. A baseball cap; maroon and well-worn and stained around the rim with what Tony hopes very much is not blood. 

But it’s Peter’s hat - the same one he’s been carting around with him to all the various bombings and, finally, the Avengers Tower - so, judging by the situation that took place on the helipad, it probably is. 

His stomach twists even harder -  _ his fault, his fault, his fault  _ \- and he throws a sharp look at Bucky. 

“What - what am I supposed to do with this?” he demands. He doesn’t mean to sound so accusing, but that’s his blood on the hat - and maybe the kid’s too, because that’s _just_ what he needs to think about now - and the only reason it's there is because Peter shot him, Peter shot him, Peter shot him and he almost _died_ and - 

“He seems to have an emotional attachment to it,” Bucky says calmly. There is no irritation, no resent in his gaze for Tony’s snap. Just a sort of bleak tiredness and something haunted that Tony remembers seeing buried deep somewhere in a bunker in the middle of Siberia. “I think it would be a good foot for you to start on, so to speak. Placate him.”

Tony nods, trying to ignore the way his stomach clenches at the phrase  _ placate him _ . Like Peter is a wild animal that needs to be shot full of a sleeping draft. Like he is an unhinged criminal or assassin hell-bent on killing them all and needs to be calmed down for an upcoming interrogation. 

Which is, incidentally, the exact situation happening here and Tony’s stomach clenches even more at that. He just nods and grips the brim of the hat harder. Bloodstained or not, it’s Peter’s. It’s something that the kid - Number Three, Peter, both, maybe - loves. Wants. 

He can deliver that at the least.  _ At the least.  _ It’s what the kid deserves. 

Assassin and unhinged aside, Peter has always deserved the best. Tony knows this, will continue to know this until he really  _ does  _ die. No amount of alteration of the kid will change that. 

Some comfort there. He will always love the kid. 

The realization feels too heavy, too suffocating for the current situation -  _ he loves the kid, he loves the kid, he loves and misses the kid so,  _ so _ much  _ \- and he grips the hat harder. The metal wiring building up the brim digs into his fingertips. 

“Okay,” he says, for lack of anything else to say, really. “I - okay.”

_ He’s going to talk to Peter. He’s going to talk to Peter. _

Suddenly the hallway feels very small. He wants to go; he wants to get as far away from the holding cell and the boy in it who shot him without hesitation and would probably pause even less to do it again. It’s selfish; he’s so  _ fucking selfish _ and he knows it, but the fear that rises up in his chest when he thinks about the helipad and the gun and the blood and the hollow, open feeling in his stomach makes it hard to completely banish the voice screaming at him to leave. He does his best to grit his teeth around it and shove it aside. He’s going to talk to Peter - he  _ wants _ to talk to Peter. It’s all he’s wanted to do for the past six months. 

But still, the fear. The stupid, selfish fear.

“Tony.” Bucky’s voice is steady and unflinching and a weird, quiet part of Tony that he tries not to listen to too much wonders if Bucky was always like this - seemingly impassive and totally unafraid by anything - or if it was a mechanism he had to develop to save himself during his time with HYDRA. If it became a means of protecting himself against the people who hurt him - giving them no pain, no fear to go off of - and then it simply stuck.

He wonders if that’s what Peter is like now. Gone from the bubbly, emotive, expressive kid to a slab of ice with walls the size of mountains surrounding him.

Something sick in the pit of his stomach tells him that that’s probably the case and he grits his teeth harder. The panic is weaving its way around his lungs, sliding in through the gaps in between his ribs and it’s leaving very little space to breathe. The room is too small, too small, he needs to go, he - 

“Tony,” Bucky says again, a little sharper. Not unkind, but firm enough to yank Tony out of the beginning fog of a panic attack. 

He blinks a few times and then exhales, forcefully. The noise is loud in the even louder silence surrounding them. “Yeah. Sorry, sorry, I’m -”

“Don’t apologize,” Bucky says, voice shot through with a shocking gentleness. “And don’t worry. I’ll be right out here if you need me.”

Tony frowns. “You’re not coming in? Why?”

Something passes over the soldier’s face - the same dark, heavy look as before and for the millionth time since this has all started - hell, since this  _ morning _ , even - Tony is reminded of how wildly unfair it is to put Bucky through a brainwashing situation that probably hits way too close to home. “He gets nervous around a lot of people,” Bucky mutters in his ear, not taking his eyes off the holding cell. “And I think - well, I think it’ll just be better if you go alone. He has no emotional connection to me and my presence will only make him both more reluctant to talk as well as less able to remember things than if it was just you. Is that okay?”

Tony pauses. He’s in no condition -  _ beyond  _ no condition - to defend himself, should it come to that. He’s not weak - in the physical sense, at least - without the suit and could, in theory, probably hold his own in a fight with just his fists, but Peter was a genetically modified borderline-superhuman  _ before  _ Toomes captured him. He has no doubt in his mind that the kid has spent the last six months honing on his strength and speed and other Spider-man skills, and there’s also no doubt in his mind that the kid could rip him in half if he wanted to. 

Which doesn’t exactly sound ideal, considering that’s his kid right there and he still trusts him with his life and it does kind of suck when people you trust with your life try and kill you. 

But still. He wants to do it alone. He wants to talk to his kid alone. 

“That’s fine,” he mutters back. 

Bucky jerks his head. “I’ll be just outside. Scream if you need me.”

He’d probably let the kid kill him before subjecting him to getting hurt by anyone - super-soldier Bucky Barnes least of all, but he nods all the same. 

“You have the hat?”

His fingers curl around the worn fabric. He nods again and Bucky’s hand rests on his shoulder for a second, squeezing tightly. 

“Good luck, Tony,” he says and even sounds like he means it and then he hand disappears and he steps back into the shadows and Tony is alone and, most importantly, his kid is less than twenty feet away from him. 

_ His kid is less than twenty feet away from him.  _

Part of him - the part that was so unwilling to have the funeral, the part that could only see her nephew whenever he looked at May’s brown hair and bright eyes, the part that saw Peter on the roof and wanted to do nothing but run to him, even as he pulled out and gun and even as he shot Tony - wants to take off, sprinting across the room and not stopping until he’s inside the cell and has Peter in his arms. The other part - the logical part; the  _ scared  _ part; the part of him that has a hard time looking into the cell and not seeing nothing but the faceless figure of the boy who shot him at point-blank range - wants to run in the opposite direction. 

_ Peter, his kid, his  _ kid,  _ is here,  _ one half of his brain tells him.  _ Number Three, the boy who wants to kill you, who already  _ tried  _ to kill you is there,  _ the other half says. 

For a second he just stands there. Peter’s back is to him; he’s half-curled up on the stick-out bed in the cell and he looks small and fragile and every single one of his only sixteen years of age. 

Tony’s chest aches. 

His Peter.  _ His Peter.  _

_ Number Three. Toomes’s Number Three _ . 

But his face is Peter’s; his hands and eyes and voice and smile and hair are all Peter’s and Tony has spent the last six months watching and waiting and not sleeping and not eating and working and searching and fighting and lying and bending over backwards for Peter and he’s  _ here now, he’s here.  _ And, even as the logical part of him is  _ screaming  _ that this won’t go well, that Tony will only be hurt and disappointed, the part that has missed the kid like a physical absence within himself is taking over, moving Tony’s body across the room at top speed until he’s there, standing right outside the glass. 

The body of Peter does not move, does not react to his arrival. He can’t see him. 

Tony’s hands shake as he presses his thumb against the access pad. The door hisses open and he steps inside. 

It closes. 

Peter turns around, looks up and over his shoulder. His eyes are dark -  _ darker _ , like somewhere along the way Toomes physically sucked some of the brightness out of them. 

Something flickers through them and just for a second Tony hopes -  _ hopes  _ \- it’s recognition. 

But then it fades away into the darkness and Peter’s jaw clenches visibly. He doesn’t turn away - small victories, if that can even be counted as a victory - but he visibly recedes back into himself, expression closing off. 

Mistrust hangs heavy in the air. He is a stranger to the kid, he realizes. A stranger and an enemy. 

He feels sick. Sick and out of place. 

There’s two chairs at the other end of the room, opposite from the kid’s bed. Probably where Nat and Bucky have been sitting. He takes his place on the one furthest from the door. Maybe to prove a point - to himself, to the kid; he’s not sure. 

Peter’s eyes follow him. His jaw clenches and unclenches silently. For half a second, Tony almost things the attentiveness is due to the kid remembering him - if only in the vaguest, least concrete way possible. It would still be something; Tony would take it gladly. 

_ He wants to kill you,  _ the voice helpfully reminds him _. He’s looking at you like that because he wants to kill you.  _

Peter doesn’t blink. His gaze is cold and unrelenting and, if his fragile frame makes him look like a child, his stare makes him look years and years older. 

And Tony, for all his days and months of imagining this situation, preparing and rehearsing what he would say over and over again - to the mirror, to his suits, to the darkness of his room - is at a total loss for words. What - what on  _ earth  _ is he supposed to say? That he missed him? That he’s so, so unexplainably sorry that this has happened; that he will kill Toomes and hundreds others without batting an eye of it would make this right?

That he had missed Peter more than he had thought humanly possible?

Even more than his own father?

Peter wouldn’t care. Peter does not care that he is here now - his cold gaze is a testament to that - and it makes Tony’s chest feel like it’s collapsing in on itself. 

_ I missed you,  _ he thinks as Peter stares unflinchingly and Tony worries the edge of the hat.  _ I missed you, I missed you, I’m so sorry.  _

_ The hat _ , says a voice that sounds like Bucky.  _ Give him the hat, idiot.  _

He pulls it out of his lap and sets it down on the table between them. It stands out dark against the white-washed furniture and Peter’s eyes widen in the vague beginnings of recognition. He looks up to Tony and, to his shock, the recognition doesn’t fade and,  _ fuck,  _ he has to do something, has to say  _ something. _

“That’s your hat,” he says and mentally flings himself into the wall. Six fucking months and that’s the first thing he says to the kid? “Yeah. Found - found it on the roof. Kinda, uh, busted up a bit - we can get you another one of you want - but, yeah. Bucky told me you had a bit of a penchant for it, so I figured - yeah.”

He waves a hand vaguely at it. Peter’s eyes rove from the hat to him and back to the hat again. 

He looks confused. 

He doesn’t move to take the hat and a weird, almost panicky feeling starts to rise in his chest again and he  _ has  _ to start taking  _ now.  _

“Bucky,” he says -  _ what the  _ fuck,  _ Stark?  _ his brain screams at him. “You probably know him as James Barnes. Sergeant, actually, but he’s not the biggest fan of that. Also the Winter Soldier, but, again, not a fan. Understandably so.”

Peter’s gaze is unreadable again. He locks eyes with Tony and swallows. 

“If we’re - uh, doing the whole -  _ introductions  _ thing, I should, uh, well, bring myself into that, huh?” The kid doesn’t respond, but he wasn’t really expecting that. “Tony. My name is Tony. Well, okay, actually it’s Anthony. Anthony Edward Stark, but I always thought Anthony made me  sound like some little rich kid who probably needed some sense roundhouse kicked into him - which I did, mind - but, yeah. Tony it is.”

Peter nods, almost imperceptibly. His hands squeeze in his lap and a flash - some unreadable expression that makes Tony’s whole body buzz - of emotion passes across his face. Then he speaks. 

Just like that, he shatters the silence. Six months of silence. Six months of not hearing the kid. Six months of the closest thing he could get to hearing the kid talk was rewatching his video diary from Germany. 

And then all of that goes out the window because the kid - his kid; his kid sitting  _ right in fucking front of him,  _ warm and breathing and  _ alive  _ \- talks. 

“You are Iron Man,” he says. Four words. Four words and Tony wants them tattooed on his fucking  _ forehead  _ because it’s his kid who said it and he said it because he’s  _ alive  _ and, Number Three or not, he’s fucking  _ alive _ . 

Tony has to breathe out hard to keep himself from passing out with pure emotion. 

“Yes,” he says - croaks, really.  _ Control,  _ the voice snaps;  _ stay in control.  _ “Yes, yeah, I - uh - I am Iron Man. Kind of - you know? He’s - Iron Man - is a - he’s not really a person, per say. More of a hunk of metal. A suit - well, we’re up to about, what, 46? 47 suits? But yeah. It’s a  public front, too, I guess. People don’t really have a problem messing with Tony Stark but once you stick him in a metal bodysuit that can shoot lasers and fly and talks all deep and stuff I guess their minds are changed a little bit. Plus, kids love it - and he’s got a pretty cool paint job. But, yeah. I  _ am  _ Iron Man. But I’m also Tony Stark. And I kinda wanna stick to the latter for now, okay?”

No response. Part of him feels weird for being so borderline vulnerable with the kid - back when he was just Peter, it was normally more of the other way around; not that Tony didn’t trust him enough to be open, but it was just not something that came naturally to him. But then he remembers the brain scans and how fried the kid’s memory is -  _ always will be _ , the voice sneers - and he realizes that, come this time tomorrow, Tony’ll be lucky if the kid even remembers the name Tony Stark. 

In the silence , the kid stares him down. His gaze is filled with the same  _ something  _ as before - all hesitation and questioning and a deep-set coldness that - though he would rather die than admit it - terrifies Tony. 

Then.  _ Then.  _

“Tony Stark,” the kid echoes. It sounds almost like a question. 

He nods. “Yeah. Tony Stark.”  _ Six words. Six words.  _ “How bout you, kid? Hear we have a few points of contention in the naming department with you.”

The kid - because he isn’t really Peter, is he? - frowns a little. Like he doesn’t understand, and - hell - Tony might as well explain it to him. 

_ Not like he’ll remember on his own,  _ the voice snarks. 

_ Shut up,  _ he snaps back, and then sighs. The kid is still watching him, a hint of expectation in his dark eyes. 

“You - okay. Okay.” Fuck _. Fuck,  _ how is he supposed to explain this in a way that won’t short-circuit the kid’s brain and-slash-or make him reach across the table and throttle him? “You - you got a couple of names, I guess, kid. Nothing wrong with that - everyone in the complex has at least five, or something. Good ol’ Captain America - you mighta met him, not sure - goes by everything from Steve to Stevie to Otter Pop to Cap to Mr. Righteous to Colossal Dickhead. He’s less of a fan of the last one, not gonna lie.”

The ghost of a smile crosses the kid’s face. It’s clamped down almost immediately by a look of stony confusion, but it’s enough to send a white-hot burst of hope searing through him. 

He keeps talking. It’s easier now and, if he really tries, he can almost pretend they’re back in his workshop and he’s rambling while the kid makes some modification to his suit, or does his homework, concentrating hard but still listening. 

Almost.  _ Almost.  _

“But yeah. A lot of names.  _ I’ve _ got a few, too - Anthony, Tony, Tones. Some, ah, less nicer ones, too. Merchant of Death. Nicknames, though, for the most part. But still important, you know? Names. Names - they, uh, they mean a lot. They’re important - an - an identifier, or whatever. Something physical to attach yourself too, you know? And you, kid, I mean - well. Yeah.”

_ Eloquent,  _ the voice snarls. He’s rambling - and it sounds  _ stupid _ . So stupid. 

But the kid seems interested, in his vague, detached sort of way. His gaze is still hard, but the flicker of  _ something  _ behind it is getting stronger. 

He thinks. Maybe he’s just imagining, projecting. 

“Merchant of Death is a tricky one,” he says, floundering for a foothold to grab onto, for something concrete to pass over the kid’s blank face so that Tony knows he’s making some progress, doing  _ something _ . “I - well, I know you know. All about me and my past and the, uh, choices and things that I made, I mean. And, listen, not to bag on the press or anything - I personally think freedom of speech is a very good thing; don’t get it twisted - but there’s a lot of sensationalism that follows me around. Then again, not to downplay any of the shit I’ve done. Because I’ve - fuck, I’ve done a lot of it. You don’t get names without a reason, and - well, for a while, I  _ was _ a merchant of death. I was killing millions. And I - yeah. I stopped - yay me, all that - but, still. Damage was done.”

The kid blinks and, once again, the silence starts to grate on Tony’s nerves, forcing him to speak. He’s scared that if he allows so much as a breath in the progress of the conversation, the kid will reach across the tab;e and flat outy kill him. Or Tony will start crying. Either one would be bad; the latter definitely coming out as the worst option.

“Yeah,” he says for about the billionth time - because it’s not like having  _ six fuckig months  _ of thinking about talking to Peter would give him  _ any _ time to prepare something just a  _ smidge _ more eloquent, oh  _ no.  _ “You - I mean, your names come from somewhere, you know? Like I’m called Tony - Anthony - because that was one of my dad’s middle names, and he being the obnoxious headass that he was thought future-me would appreciate that. And you - you too, same stuff. Your names come from somewhere, yeah? You got two of them that I know of - Number Three and Peter Parker. Peter Benjamin Parker.”

The kid blinks again. His face is stony. His eyes are cold.

Just a part - a single, hope-blinded part - of Tony thinks that the expression looks forced. Deliberately controlled. Lie he’s reacting, but he doesn’t want to show it.

Or, Tony is just stupud and Peter is just gone and he’s wasting his fucking time talking his ass off in the cell and generally being useless. Probably that. 

“Number Three - well, I wasn’t part of the creation of that name, so I can’t - can’t really talk, I guess. Heard the other guy had a penchant from that number, though,” he says and the back of his eyes  _ burn _ . “Peter Benjamin Parker - that’s the other guy. Parker is, well, last name. It’s - you know about last names, right? Right. Yeah, gonna hope you do, ‘cause, if not…”  _ If you can’t even remember how last names work, what am I doing here thinking you’ll somehow remember who I am? _ “Yeah. Benjamin is from your uncle - Benjamin Parker. Peter - well, your aunt tells me your mom really liked that name. Thought it was a name a good kid would have. The kind of kid that would help old - old ladies cross the street, or give directions, or -”  _ Or get parking garages dropped on their heads and nearly die in plane crashes because all they want to do is save the world before anyone else has to worry about it _ . “- or, you know. Good Samaritan type shit, all that.”

The kid’s mouth hardens. His gaze flicks down to the baseball cap again - eyes burn into it like the aforementioned lasers on Tony’s suit - and then back up at Tony.

And it’s not Number Three looking at him all of a sudden. The kid’s eyes are wide and sparkling - even in the dull, almost grimy light of the cell - and chock-full of  _ feeling _ . 

Feelings. From confusion to concern to something that looks suspiciously like guilt - of course, of  _ course _ Peter would find something to be guilty about in a situation that is;’t even close to being anywhere near his fault - to a weird, heavy sadness that Tony recognizes all too well.

It’s the same look he’s seen himself wearing so many times. The look he’d get - and everyone else would, too - when Peter was brought up. The aching look of loss, of longing. It was the look they wore when they missed him. When  _ Tony _ missed him.

The kid misses him. Something inside that kid has recognized Tony, taken in his presence across the table and connected it with the shadows of memories inside the kid’s brain and told the kid that he  _ misses _ the man sitting five feet away from him.

“Tony?”

The kid’s - Peter’s, it’s Peter now - voice is so soft and so full of  _ feeling _ and a fear that makes Tony’s heart  _ ache _ and then tighten in his chest and it’s him, it’s him, it’s his fucking  _ kid _ , he’s  _ back _ .

He’s back and he’s scared and he’s missed Tony and it takes every ounce of self control he’s ever possessed to not get up and pull the kid into a backbreaking hug and keep him there forever and then some. To just  _ hold _ him - feel his kid in his arms, feel his pulse and his breath and his warmth and all the signs that he is  _ alive _ and  _ breathing _ and not dead on a bunker floor; see his smile and feel his hair tickling Tony’s chin like it always does when they hug. He wants to wrap himself around the kid, become a human shield if he has to - anything to stop anything like this ever happening again. 

Because if Peter thinks he’s missed Tony now, then Tony’s not even sure if there’s a word to describe what he’s been feeling in his absence. 

“Glad to see you again, Peter,” is all he can get out.  _ Glad _ doesn’t even cover it. 

The kid shifts back fractionally. Something tight and dark crosses his face and, when he meets Tony’s gaze again, the hesitation in there is unmistakable. Something twists inside Tony’s stomach, suddenly. The warmth is starting to recede from the kid’s gaze - grain by grain, but Tony can see it. 

_ You fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up, _ the voice crows, ever Tony’s biggest supporter.  _ You pushed too hard and now he’s gone and you fucked this all up, idiot _ .

“Peter?” 

The kid’s - still Peter’s? - voice is soft, hesitant. Questioning. Like he’s scared that if he speaks too loud, whatever chunk of his past life that he’s managed to pin down will suddenly get spooked and dart away. Like he’s testing out the name itself, seeing if it fits, or if the clunkiness and unfamiliarity on his tongue is too much to handle.

Tony doesn't speak, just watches the kid from the literal edge of his seat. His hands clench and unclench in his lap and his elbows dig into his knees as he leans forward, locking eyes with the kid - who now seems determined to look anywhere  _ but _ Tony - willing him, silently  _ begging  _ him to remember.

_ You are Peter Parker,  _ he silently screams.  _ You are Peter Parker; please, you have to be, you _ have _ to be. _

But, just as quickly as it came, the spell is broken. It shatters into a million pieces and the emotion vanishes from the kid’s gaze, replaced by the too-familiar wall of ice and flint. 

Just like that, Peter Parker disappears again.

It hurts just as much as getting shot in the stomach did. Tony has to fight to keep his breath level, fight to keep his face from crumpling, fight to keep himself from leaning forward again and screaming _ come back, come back, come back _ .

“My name,” the kid spits out, every syllable shot through with a menace that he didn’t think Peter was ever able of producing -  _ but this isn’t Peter, _ he reminds himself; Peter may not be dead and gone, but he certainly isn’t sitting across the table from Tony right now. “Is Number Three.”

“Says who?” he counters. The hope in his chest flickers in the wind of that sentence, but he refuses to let it go out. Peter is somewhere in there. And he’s already decided that fighting to bring him out  _ will  _ be worth it. 

The kid falters for just a second and Tony ploughing ahead. 

“Rhetorical question, of course. I know who it is. And you wanna know something else? I think you from six months ago would’ve given me a very different answer to that question.”

The kid looks uncertain.  _ Uncertain.  _

“I know who you are, kid. And I think - hope - something in you knows who I am, too.” He swallows away the ache somewhere in the back of his throat. “I really hope, kid. Because the version of you I know is a damn good kid.”  _ Goodness. All he radiates is goodness. “ _ And I don’t wanna lose him, okay? And that kinda rests on you - sorry - because you are him and he is you and I am the circle and the circle is me, all that shit - ever read Chaos Walking? No? - and what you do affects him. And I don’t - really,  _ really _ don’t want you to kick him out, okay? I need Peter.”

The kid’s brow creases. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but closes it. 

And they’ve already crossed the vulnerability bridge and are moving into straight up embarrassingly personal territory, so Tony might as well be honest about it. He swallows what feels like a ping pong ball and a mouthful of ash and burns the image of the kid’s eyes filled with warmth in his mind and keeps speaking. “Peter?” he says, and he doesn’t even have time or energy to have how weak his voice comes out. “If you’re still in there, I need you buddy, okay? We’re gonna get you back. We’re gonna fix what this guy did, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

_ Liar. Such a fucking liar. _

He ignores it. He ignores everything. Just pushes the hat across the table towards Peter and stands up.

His body feels like it’s on autopilot. He needs to get out of this cell and get somewhere very far away and very quiet and get very drunk and then think about everything that’s just happened for a very long period of time.

The kid is still sitting cross legged on his bed, the exact same way as when Tony entered the room.

The look of total confusion written across his face is new.

_ Come back _ , Tony silently wills, halfway to the door. The kid’s head jerks up, almost like he heard him, and stares long and hard at Tony for a moment. For all his stony expressions and fighting capabilities and cold eyes, the kid has never looked more like a  _ kid _ than in that moment. 

The urge to pick him up, hold him until this mess fixes itself, bites at the back of his heels. He shakes it off. He’s pushed it enough today.

He’s barely hanging onto his neutral expression as it is - burning in the back of his eyes has only increased by a tenfold - and he cannot -  _ will not _ break right now. 

_ Come back _ .

The kid looks away. Stares at the hat like it’s about to catch fire.

_ Please. Come back _ .

He grits his teeth. Punches in the passcode for the doors and steps out as they silently swing open.

The kid does not move.

_ Please _ .

“Call if you need something,” he says in a voice that is calm and controlled and even and cannot possibly be coming from him.

_ Please, kid, I miss you. _

Still, the kid remains frozen. Still, he doesn’t touch the hat. Still, the hole in Tony’s chest expands and expands and expands. 

_ Please. _

Then the doors close with a faint  _ woosh _ and Tony is left alone in the darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SIX THOUSAND WORDS!!!! SO MANY!!! i kinda rambled a little (a lot) and i’m not sure if this chapter is like coherent idk i struggled a lot w this one trying to get this all right bc it is the Grand Reunion Part One and i gotta do it right but i think it ended up ok?¿....lmk y’alls thoughts....


	16. remember

He does not sleep that night.

He does not so much as move from his spot on the bed. Legs crossed. Spine pressing up against the wall. He can feel each vertebrae rubbing against the concrete each time he shifts, can hear each time the light above him hums and sputters, can feel the blanket rubbing against his ankles and can smell the combination of disinfectant and motor oil.

It makes his head spin.

_ My name is Number Three _ .

_ (Says who?) _

His head pounds. He can feel the blood pumping through him, almost feel each singular blood cell rushing from his lungs to his heart, circulating around his body, keeping his bag of bones and blood and muscle and tissue upright and against the wall.

_ My name is Number Three _ .

But the conviction is slipping. Already slipped. Already fell to pieces on the ground around him. It took one look at the Iron Man and disappeared.

At  _ Tony _ . Took one look at Tony Stark.

Anthony Edward Stark. Iron Man. Tony. Tones. Merchant of Death. 

He has stopped trying to fight the  _ something _ . That course of action is pointless now; the scraps of the logician he once was tells him that in a calm, almost bored tone.  _ It is useless _ , it tells him.  _ You cannot fight against something you openly acknowledge, and you did so the second you spoke to Iron Man.  _

Because he  _ did _ do that, didn’t he? For all his forgetting, for all the things that he’s done that he  _ knows _ he’s done but, for some inexplicable reason, cannot remember, Number Three remembers everything about Anthony Edward Stark and their conversation perfectly.

_ Tony. My name is Tony. _

_ (Your name is Iron Man) _ .

That’s where he slipped. The first words - an obvious fact. Simple information relay. It’s all he was trained to do - remembering and reciting. Remembering where his missions were,  _ what  _ his missions were. Remembering how to complete them, remembering key objectives, key figures, key weaknesses to those key figures that would help him take them down. Captain America cannot win in combat in large bodies of water owing to Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder-related associations with them. Black Widow’s weakest punch is her left uppercut. The Hulk is only the Hulk when his heart rate elevates past a certain level; aside from that, he is nothing but an ordinary citizen. Remembering, remembering remembering. Everything Sir told him - tells him, he remembers.

And reciting. Remembering and reciting. Reciting back the information drilled into his head - about the Avengers and its members, abous Sokovia, the city that fell from the sky about the Battle of New York and the fallout that came trailing after and the life loss and destruction and rubble lining the streets that made the city look like something out of a World War Two flick, whatever that meant. Sir’s words, not his. 

A running pattern. He is good at detecting those. Remembering similarities, remembering recurrences, tracing the relationships between them and remembering it all so he could use it to his advantage later. Remembering, remembering, remembering. 

_ Glad to see you again, Peter. _

He had looked at Iron Man, at a mass murderer face to face. He had looked at his primary target, his end objective for months upon months upon months, and done nothing.

Iron Man had been unarmed. He had been wearing sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt with the logo for a music group called AC/DC plastered on it. He had looked tired and pale and thin with dark shadows under his eyes, half-healed cuts on his face, and stubble crawling up his cheeks. He had looked old and fragile - barely recovered from his injury - and tired. So tired.

Peter could’ve taken him out with his eyes closed. 

And yet, he didn’t.

_ Peter Benjamin Parker - that’s the other guy. _

The  _ something _ had taken over. Always hovering around the edges, always waiting to pounce, to sink its claws into him - into Number Three - Iron Man had finally provided it with its opportunity to do so.

No, not Iron Man. It hadn’t been about Iron Man at that point.

It had been about Anthony Edward Stark. Tony. It had been about Tony - it still  _ is _ about Tony.

Because he had recognized him. Halfway through one of the man’s speeches and suddenly the  _ something  _ had won and he had _ known  _ who he was looking at.

He didn’t know anymore. It had disappeared as quickly as it had come. The recognition that had burnt its way up through somewhere in his chest to out of his mouth in the form of a single word - because he might not remember  _ why _ he had said anything, but he still remembered saying it - and then it died out. 

_ What are you doing? _ Everything in him that hadn’t been smothered by pure, aching  _ recognition _ for Tony Stark.  _ You are Number Three. You are a  _ weapon _. You were trained to be flawless, to execute missions perfectly and without hesitation, to be a  _ weapon _ \- what are you doing? _

He hadn’t known. He hadn’t had a response.

All he had known was that something inside him looked at the man sitting across the table from him, still talking about names, and recognized him.

_ Knew _ him.

_ Missed him _ .

Still, the voice had pressed on.  _ You are Number Three _ , it snarled.  _ Peter Parker is dead. Peter Parker died and you are not him. You are Number Three _ .

And he had collapsed - the  _ something _ had collapsed -  into that notion. Because it was familiar - it still is. The idea that he is Number Three, that he serves Sir and no one else, that he is a weapon created just for the purpose, that he does not love, that he does not feel  _ anything _ is familiar. 

That he does not miss anyone, least of all Iron Man because how - why - on earth should he miss Iron Man?

_ You knew him, you knew him, you  _ knew  _ him - _

“Shut up,” he says. Uselessly. He cannot stop it.

Ironic. He - Number Three - has gotten away with masses of aggravated attacks across the globe. He has blown up a high school and shot one of the most powerful men in the stomach and gotten away with it all. Not because of luck, not because he was let go, but because he was -  _ is _ \- smart. Fast. Intelligent. Strong. He can do anything and everything he wants, and he can do it to perfection. He’s  _ trained for that _ .

Except get the voices in his head to shut up.

_ Why didn’t you go for the head? _

Because the something had taken over then, too. And it had wrenched his hands down, made them shake - and even  _ that _ was making excuses; shaking hands or not, there was no way he should’ve missed the target by that much - made him  _ miss _ .

_ (I shot him. I just shot Tony) _

He had recognized Iron Man. Same as just recently.

“My name is Number Three,” he says. To no one. To himself.

But he’s barely listening to himself anymore.

He’s not supposed to be like this. He’s supposed to be intelligent, calm, assured. He’s supposed to be in control and stay in control, no matter where he is. He has the rules of captivity; he’s supposed to follow them. He  _ has _ to follow them. He doesn’t know what will happen if he doesn’t, but he knows enough about Sir to know that it will hurt. A lot.

_ We’re gonna get you back. _

But he’s already broken the rules. He’s talked. He’s eaten. He’s asked for things. He’s shown weakness. 

_ We’re gonna fix what this guy did, okay?  _

He knows Iron Man. He knows Tony Stark and, even though he can’t remember why, he  _ misses _ Tony Stark. He wants Tony Stark back in here, wants the man to sit back down across the table from him and talk for hours and hours and hours and he just wants to  _ listen _ .

Remember. He wants to remember.

_ You’re gonna be okay. _

His chest shouldn’t hurt like this. Maybe he’s going into cardiac arrest; maybe he’s been poisoned; maybe he’s dying. He should call someone. Tony Stark. He should call Tony Stark.

_ There’s no reason to call Tony Stark, _ the voice inside him snaps.  _ You’re not dying. You’re just weak.  _

“I’m not weak,” he mutters aloud.

_ Liar _ .

“Shut up,” he hisses. Presses the palms of his hands into his eyes. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”

He’s supposed to be in control. 

He’s supposed to remember. To remember everything around him and yet nothing about himself. Personal memories are nothing but a distraction, Sir says.  _ You have to walk the line, soldier _ , he had always said.  _ You have to access the parts of your memory that are useful to the missions, and nothing else. _

But something about that feels  _ wrong _ . He doesn’t know anything - doesn’t know his birthday, his parents name, where he was born, where he grew up, what school he went to, what subjects he liked, what sports he played, what his favorite color or movie or song or food was. He didn’t know  _ any  _ of it and it’s not like that should’ve been an issue; he’s a  _ weapon _ , he’s not supposed to care about unimportant details like that. He completes missions. That’s all he’s supposed to do.

But he can’t be a weapon. He can’t be what Sir says he is because if he  _ was _ , he wouldn’t be feeling like this. He would still be in control, still be as unphased by the notion of seeing Iron Man face-to-face - of  _ killing  _ him - as before.

He was unphased before.

Right?

He presses harder. Squeezes his eyes shut.

“I knew him,” he hisses to no one. No one except the voice in his head, who seems supremely unamused by his going off the rails. “I  _ knew _ him; why did I know him?”

_ Shut up,  _ the voice says.  _ You’re Number Three. Get it together; grow up and calm the _ fuck _ down. _

He doesn’t feel like Number Three. The voice talking to him feels more like Number Three.

But he doesn’t feel like Peter Benjamin Parker either.

_ Peter - well, your aunt tells me your mom really liked that name. Thought it was a name a good kid would have. _

He doesn’t even know who the aunt in question is. There’s something there at the mention of her; something big and gaping and empty feeling, like he was opened up, had his heart removed, and then sewn back shut again. Like there’s something missing from him. 

Like a birthdate, like a family, like a single clue as to who he is and how he got here and why he feels like he knows everything and yet nothing at the same time?

He almost  _ wishes _ he could believe the voice in its saying that he is Number Three. He  _ knows _ what that means, knows what it means to be Number Three. It means efficiency, capability, intelligence. Strength and speed and understanding of what he is and what he has to do to fulfill that. There is stability in knowing, even if he doesn’t  _ know _ who Number Three is, really. Where he came from;  _ why _ he is the way he is.

He drops his hands to his sides. Everything feels heavy. He is tired.

He wants to talk to Tony Stark. Understand why he misses him. 

_ No,  _ Number Three snaps instantly because he is Number Three and a pain in the ass, decidedly.  _ Next time you see Tony Stark you will kill him _ .

“No, I won’t,” he mumbles. The walls around blur slightly. He really is tired.

He didn’t used to get tired.

Then again, he didn’t used to care about what he remembers and what he didn’t and who Tony Stark was.

Number Three has no response to that. The voice is silent, curled up somewhere in the back of his head like a sleeping cat, just waiting to rear its head at the mere notion of maybe not murdering Tony Stark with his bare hands.

Sir is going to kill him. The realization hits, slow and steady, and he can’t even find it in himself to be very concerned. Something inside him feels like it’s only the natural progression of events at this point, Sir killing him. 

Something even deeper inside him feels like he’s been avoiding that reality for a long time now.

He blinks. 

_ I need Peter. If you’re still in there, I need you buddy, okay?  _

But, sitting on the outcropping bed all alone in a holding cell talking to a voice in his head that, if given the opportunity, would probably kill him as well as Tony Stark, the notion of Peter Benjamin Parker feels more dead and gone than ever before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peter b parker experiences one (1) human emotion and thinks he’s dying because the b actually stands for Biggest Idiot Ever
> 
> neways....sry this is a short chapter szzzz i was gonna do the tony peter talk from  
> peters perspective but i wanna keep the plot moving....things r gonna get Fun (not good fun)(bad angsty fun)(bc it’s me what do you expect) very soon.... :-)


	17. fight

“Tony. Tony!”

Tony keeps walking. Fast and hard. His feet thud against the wood floor as he barrels up the staircase and down the hall. His hands are clenched, nails digging deep into his palm. It’s grounding him, pulling him back down from the cloud of panic and fear and unbridled  _ anger  _ that’s threatening to suffocate him.

Anger at himself. Anger at Toomes - pure, undiluted  _ fury  _ directed towards that piece of shit. really Anger at the universe for being so maddeningly  _ stupid _ , for hurting the one person who least deserves it over and over and over again.

Maybe even a bit of anger towards that person, too. Though thinking that only makes him feel worse. Out of all the people and things whose fault this is, it’s least of all the fault of the boy in that holding cell.

Not Peter. He can’t call him Peter now. Something about that feels ineffably wrong.

Behind him, Bucky is not giving up. Probably thinks he’s about to hurl himself off the helipad, or something. Steve, in all his partly annoying, partly comforting permanent concern for Tony’s wellbeing,  must be rubbing off on him, then. 

“Tony, will you - god,  _ wait -” _

He does not. He does not want to talk to anyone about anything right now - least of all about the boy in the holding cell who can’t remember his own name. He wants to get very drunk and stop thinking about anything in particular and then pass out for the next three to five business days.

Because, you know, he’s mature like that. He’s a capable, level-headed adult who knows who to deal with things like any normal, not totally useless person would. He knows how to fix his problems and help the people he loves. Of course he does - he’s Tony  _ fucking  _ Stark.

Tony fucking Stark: word’s worst liar. 

He turns the corner into the kitchen. The lights are off and he doesn’t bother rectifying that situation. His head is already pounding and he’s not sure of turning them on would do that particular issue any good. Besides, if he turns the, on, he’ll probably catch sight of himself in the fridge, or something, and he really doesn’t feel like replacing the door again. Or breaking all the bones in his hand trying to punch his reflection.

See the point about him being level headed again. 

He can hear footsteps pounding behind him as he throws open the cabinet door to where the alcohol is kept. Pepper really should have followed up on those threats she was making about putting a passcode on it. Maybe she knew it was pointless. It would take him six seconds to hack any lock that he didn't make himself and, when you really thought about it, he was already well beyond deserving of any help from her - in the form of padlocks on cabinets or otherwise.

_ Wow, really living it up with the self-pity tonight, aren’t we, Stark?  _ the voice snarks as he pulls out a sheeny bottle of vodka and yanks the top off.  _ Grow up. _

He doesn’t deign to respond. He doesn’t care enough to even try.

The footsteps grow louder and louder as he pulls a glass out from a neighboring cabinet and fills it. He’s just knocking back his first mouthful - whole body burning with the sensation of it - when Bucky bursts into the room, looking a little aggravated. 

“I thought you were supposed to be quiet,” Tony remarks, moving to sit at one of the bar stools. “You know, super soldier, combat training. Can’t imagine all those generals really appreciated you trampling through the bushes in - Illinois, or wherever you were.”

Bucky makes a face. “Wisconsin. And I got lost. What are you doing?”

He held up the glass for Bucky to see, whose face only grew darker. “Having a nightcap. So sue me.”

“ _ Tony _ -”

“Bucky, I swear to god, if you jump up my ass for this one. It’s been a long day. Cut me some slack.”

He can’t keep the hint of desperation out of his voice nor, he finds, does he really give much of a shit. If Bucky has half a brain - which he does - he would’ve left the intercom on during the conversation and listened in, lest the kid have another rush of murderous desire like before on the helipad. And, if he had done that - which he undoubtedly did - he would’ve heard the downward spiral the conversation had taken and could likely infer that Tony is not currently feeling his best because of it.

_ My name is Number Three. _

He grits his teeth. running a nail along a groove in the counter and locking eyes with the soldier, half-daring him to comment further. 

He does not, to Tony’s silent relief. He instead just takes a seat at one of the stools next to Tony and folds his hands - one metal and gleaming in the light from overhead, one flesh-colored and white-knuckled. He doesn’t speak for a moment, just stares off somewhere in the direction of the dishwasher, gaze vacant. Tony casts him sidelong glances between sips of his drink, taking the man beside him in.

Tony doesn’t look - like,  _ really  _ look - at Bucky much. It’s hard - it’s still hard, still  _ stupidly  _ hard - to look at him and just see Bucky. Bucky in his present form, the Bucky that exists now. Not Sergeant Barnes, who died somewhere in the snow all those years ago. Not the Winter Soldier, not the man who killed his parents - his  _ mother -  _ who died in Wakanda ten months ago. But Bucky - the Bucky they have now. For better, for worse.

Concessions were made when Bucky returned back to the Tower after being officially cleared by Princess Shuri and her team. For most of the team residing there, though, they felt removed, distant. No one had any other version of Bucky to go off of other than the vicious mind-controlled Winter Soldier, so the new Bucky Barnes, in all his stony silence and careful stares and guarded expression, was a welcome change.

Not for Steve, though. Bucky was low down on the list of things they - he and Tony - were willing to discuss. Old sins, long shadows, the whole spiel. Tony had by and large agreed to bury the hatchet with Siberia, or at least throw some dirt on top of the abs refuse to look at it unless absolutely forced to. And anyways, by the time the Rogues returned, just a couple months before Bucky himself did, Tony already had enough on his plate. Between the mess with Toomes to Peter becoming a regular presence around the Tower - and a regular presence at the front of Tony’s mind - to his company and his suits and Rhodey’s rehabilitation and the amendments to the very accords that had ripped the team apart so unceremoniously in the first place, Tony had - or wanted to have - very little brain space left over to continue wallowing in his emotions about Steve and Bucky and the Rogues. 

But he knew enough to recognize that, as everyone gradually settled in, the Bucky-Steve dynamic had changed. Shifted, albeit fractionally. And, yeah, they never discussed it, but they didn’t have to. Steve might well have been the ice he had fallen into when it came to hiding his emotions, but when Bucky came onto the picture, suddenly all the frustration and sadness and grief the change - because it really only seemed small to Tony, who had never known Sergeant Barnes, who had never known Steve’s Bucky from the 40s - caused had been written all over the captain’s face.

Bucky is different now. It’s a fact of life. HYDRA changed him, destroyed him from the inside out, and rebuilding didn’t come without some structural modifications. 

And previously, Steve’s frustration at said modifications had always confused Tony. Bucky was  _ alive  _ \- not only that, he was no longer the Winter Soldier. What was there to be frustrated about anymore?

But then the realization that, when - if, really; a sickening  _ if -  _ they get Peter - the  _ real _ Peter Benjamin Parker - back, he will be just as fractionally different as Bucky is now hits, and suddenly Tony understands Steve’s feelings in shocking clarity.

And he hates it. He hates that the same frustration, the same longing for the past he knows that - no matter what they do, no matter how hard he fights - he will never get back bubbles up in his throat every time he so much as thinks about the holding cell and the boy in it. He hates the deep, inexplicable sadness that shoots through him every time he realizes that the part of Peter that kept him joyous and bubbly and  _ happy  _ is probably long gone, lying somewhere amongst the dirt and blood of that bunker floor. He hates to think about what the kid will have to go through to come back to normal, and hates even more to think about what he went through previously to turn him into Number Three.

He hates this all so fucking much.

“You okay?” Bucky’s voice is soft. A softness Tony still struggles to associate with him -  _ the Winter Soldier,  _ the stupid voice in the back corner of his mind hisses - but makes his heart clench a little nonetheless.

And, again. If anyone deserves honesty from Tony, deserves as little bullshit as he can manage, is Bucky. So he shrugs, digging a nail into a crack in the marble and dragging it up and down. He’s not sure if he trusts his voice enough to speak.

Bucky understands -  _ thank god for Bucky fucking Barnes _ , he thinks - and gives a tiny sigh. He’s still staring at the dishwasher - or maybe the sink above it? - and the expression in his eyes is nothing short of haunted. 

_ He lived this once _ , Tony reminds himself and a hollow feeling in his stomach opens up.  _ He was the guy in the holding cell once. _

Guilt bites at his heels again, and this time he doesn’t bother to kick it away. Just downs the rest of his drink and exhales through gritted teeth around the lump in his throat, the hole in his chest, the heavy emptiness in his stomach. Bucky doesn’t deserve this, He didn’t deserve anything that happened to him. Neither does Peter - Peter, beacon of inexplicable goodness that Tony never  _ ever  _ came close to deserving in his life. 

This isn’t fair. This isn’t fucking fair, 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into the silence. His voice is low and shaky and he does not care at all. He’s weak; why not let the whole world know it? “Jesus, I’m so fucking sorry. For all of this, for this -” he waves a hand abstractly. He wants another drink. “-  _ mess  _ we’re in. You - I know this is - close to home and, shit, Bucky, I -”

He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. Doesn’t know  _ how  _ to say it. He just sets his glass down with a heavy thunk and exhales again.

_ I need you.  _

Weak. That’s all he is. Weak and stupid and so fucking  _ weak. _

“He’s gone,” he finds himself saying in a voice that sounds so cracked and splintered it feels unbelievable that it’s coming from him. “Peter - he’s gone, I - I thought I had him for - for a  _ second  _ he was there and he - shit - said my name, remembered me and then -  _ shit -” _

His hands are shaking -  _ weak, weak, weak -  _ and he clenches them on the table top. 

But he keeps talking all the same, The dam is breaking; hell, it broke a long, long time ago, and he’s too tired, too  _ done  _ to do anything about it. “And he was just - gone. He left, he’s fucking  _ gone  _ and I - shit, I don't know how to fix this. I don’t - I -  _ fuck _ , I don’t know what to do. I - god, isn’t it hilarious? The great Tony  _ fucking _ Stark - no idea what to do. I just -”

He swallows back what feels like a golf ball and his chest is burning, splitting in half and Bucky’s gaze is still gentle, still, so gentle and it makes Tony want to curl up and just  _ sob.  _ “I just want him back,” he says. His voice shakes with the weight of that phrase being said aloud. “I just miss him. So fucking much.”

His eyes are stinging -  _ burning  _ \- and he reaches a hand up to rub them. It comes away wet and, for the life of him, he can’t make himself care. Peter -  _ Peter - _ is gone and never coming back so what else does he have to care about, really? 

Bucky makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, Tony recognizes it; it’s the same one he would make after ever had a particularly bad panic attack following the Homecoming fiasco or the one he would make when he walked in on Peter sitting in the lab all alone looking for all the world like everything around him had burnt to ash on the beach in Coney Island.

A nose of affection. A noise of sympathy - not the obnoxious, know-it-all kind, but a genuine sympathy born out of caring deeply for person you see hurting - and Tony can’t for the life of him figure out what he did to make Bucky Barnes care about him in any way, shape, or form. 

He blew off his arm in Siberia. Nearly killed him. 

He doesn’t deserve the care, anyways, so it doesn’t really matter.

“I know,” Bucky says in a voice that is still low and soft and gentle. “I understand.”

There's a pause where Tony stares dully at the bottle across the counter from him before realizing that, if he stands up to get it, he’ll probably fall over and not get back up again and Bucky studies Tony in a way that makes him just shy of feeling like he’s being dissected alive. 

“He’s not gone, Tony.” Bucky says after a moment and Tony laughs, a single, harsh noise that rips to pieces somewhere in his chest.

“You heard him. You’ve seen him. Tell me, where’s the Peter in him?”

“He recognized you.”

“Yeah, right up until he didn’t.”

“But he still did,” Bucky says simply, softly. His hands are still folded. There’s another pause, another heavy, crushing sickened, and then, “Steve struggled the most with this - still does. The line between the old Bucky and the new Bucky. What was the same, what wasn’t; it was hard for him to, you know, get that there were different people in question. That  _ I  _ was a different person, that the Bucky he knew had died, had been killed, and there was nothing anyone could do about that. I have all his memories now, but I’m not him. And p, you know, I used to think that was the worst thing in the world. So did Steve. He missed me - I missed me - and it took both of us a while to realize that  _ I  _ was still here, technically. Just a little different. Not bad different - good, really, if you think about what I was before - but just different.”

Tony passes a hand over his face and keeps it there, pushing it down over his eyes like he can somehow put himself to sleep until this whole mess is over. And, still, even though he should’ve left hours -  _ days _ \- ago, even though Tony is so far beyond deserving of his support, Bucky keeps taking in the same calm, soft voice. 

“Took a long time to get there, really. To the point of understanding myself and understanding that I was still a person, that I could still feel and live and breathe just as I had before. That Steve wasn’t going to leave, that I wasn’t going to be hurt ever again. That I was safe. It took a lot of Wakanan technology and King T’Challa and Shuri and Steve’s support to get me there. There were days where I couldn’t remember anything # were I would look at Steve and feel absolutely nothing. And then there were days where I could remember everything but get but didn’t know how to separate it into coherent pieces. I just felt and felt and felt and didn’t understand  _ what  _ I was feeling but kept feeling it all the same. And it was terrifying. A lot of it was so, so terrifying, because for a long time I just didn’t feel like shine, I wasn’t Bucky Barnes, not really, but I wasn’t the Winter Soldier either, And the grey area I was in was just terrifying.

“And, honestly, if it wasn’t for Steve, I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d probably be back on ice, But Steve stayed, stayed through all the lapses and the forgetting and the emptiness and the not knowing who I was anymore. He sat by me and stayed even though it was hard, even though it was horrible for him, even though he blamed himself for every single second of it. Even though I thought he should’ve left a million times over, he stayed,. And I got better. He didn’t fix me - he couldn’t have, no matter how much he wanted to - but just him being there helped me get better. Helped me become a person again.”

“I’m not Steve,” says Tony in his softest voice yet. “I’m not - he’s a hero, Bucky, He’s - I’m just not him.”

“If Steve is a hero, I can’t even imagine what they call you,” Bucky says and,  _ fuck _ , Tony’s eyes are burning all over again, He blinks hard, stares at the countertop until it melts into a pool of black and grey. “I will not lie to you, so I will not tell you this will be easy. But I was the Winter Soldier for 70 years and I still came back to me. I still got better, What’s to say Peter won’t, or can’t? He’s a strong fucking kid. You know that, I know that, the whole world knows that. And, more to the point, he loves you. He looks at you like you hung all the stars in the sky just for him. That kind of love - that kind of bind you guys have - that goes past anything Toomes could ever do to him. He recognized you because he loves you, because even he as Number Three loves you enough to see your face and know that you’re someone important. Toomes can’t 5ake that away. No one can take that away. They couldn’t take it away from me.”

Tony blinks again. His vision blurs. His chest aches with a renewed vigor so strong breathing physically hurts for a second.

“You will be his Steve. You  _ are  _ his Steve, you know, minus a couple of things-”

“Ew,” Tony says, giving a watery laugh, and Bucky huffs a laugh.

“Ew yourself,” Bucky retorts, but he’s still soft and he’s still smiling a little. “But, no. I believe in you Tony. I believe in you and I believe in Peter and I know that he is still in there. And I know with even more certainty that you are enough - that you mean enough to him; always have, always will - to help bring him back. You  _ will _ , and you will have all the help you need. You are not alone, Tony. You will not fight this fight alone. That is a promise.”

“Promise,” he echoes. It sounds more like a question.

Bucky’s hand - the metal one; it’s cold and smooth and grounding - reaches out and grabs his forearm. Squeezes gently. “Promise. Boot me off the top of the Tower if it’s not.”

He laughs again. It still sounds a little watery, but there's more force behind it, more strength. Less of the gaping hole that was there before - that is still there, but closing a little - maybe.

Bucky opens his mouth again when someone at the door clears their throat suddenly, cutting him off. Tony flinches and Bucky does his equivalent of flinching, which is looking around in all directions very quickly.

“No need to freak out,” says a familiar voice, all dry and half-joking and Tony relaxes fully at it because it’s Rhodey, it’s  _ Rhodey.  _ Rhodey in all his calmness and sensibility, Rhodey who knows what to do. Rhodey who will never fault Tony when he doesn’t. “Just me. Am I interrupting something? Should I get Steve?”

Buck’s hand jerks off Tony's arm like he’s been burned and Tony cracks the ghost of a smile It feels forgiven on his face, but not that unpleasant. “No need, sourpatch. Mr. Barnes reserves the heart eyes for one man only and that man is, tragically speaking, not me.”

“You’re insufferable,” Bucky says confidently. But he’s smiling a little. 

Tony turns the seat to face Rhodey, who is still, standing in the door, one arm resting on the frame. He’s wearing an MIT sweater and an expression so tense and dark Tony physically feels the weight slam back into his stomach and the hole open back up in his chest. He stands up without even thinking, crossing the room to his friend in a heartbeat.

”What?” he forces out.  _ Not Peter, not the kid,  _ please _ not the kid.  _ “What’s wrong?”

Rhodey’s mouth twists. Tony can feel Bucky step up beside him. Dread sinks into the pit of his stomach.

“Just checked the computers,” Rhodey says in a voice that is as tense as is face and shot through with something dark and almost murderous. Tony realizes that his friend is  _ shaking _ , shaking with poorly repressed  _ fury  _ and the dread sinks deeper. “Wanted to see if there were any messages from anyone.”

“And?” Tony prompts. But he knows, he knows, the sinking feeling tells him th _ at he knows. _

“It’s Toomes. He’s been calling us for the past half an hour. He wants to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo...cliffhanger much...also i am a proud member of the Bucky Barnes Deserves Better and I Will Make Sure He Gets It squad....mans is so good. he really did walk so number three could run huh
> 
> also! fun thing i was Seized with inspiration and have started a new fic...it’s called the unimaginable light and it will be so much better than it looks i Promise...pls go check it out if u would like :-)
> 
> (again as always thank u for all ur guys’ support! means the world to me<33)


	18. resolve

For second Tony’s not entirely sure how to react to this news. He stands there, not two feet away from Rhodey, and just blinks.

Then blinks again.

His brain hasn’t caught up.  Some part of him and he knows that the Toomes Rhodey is talking about is Adrian Toomes, the Vulture, Peter Parker’s veritable murderer. The man calling him is the very same man who, recently, Tony has dedicated more than a little time to figuring out just how he’s going to make him pay for everything he did to his kid.

It’s Adrian Toomes.

It’s the man who brainwashed Peter. Who turned him into Number Three, who make him into the person who could kill dozens of his classmates - his _friends_ \- without so much as batting an eye.

Tony blinks again, not because he thinks it will have any effect on the situation, but because he doesn’t know what else to do.

 _Toomes is calling me_ , he thinks.

Then, _the man who brainwashed Peter Parker is calling me._

His brain still feels like it’s in slow motion; like it’s been submerged in a vat of ice and the temperature has caused all the neurons to stop firing properly. But he knows, some intrinsic part of him knows - or at least  the remaining functioning parts of his stunned brain know - that he should be very, _very_ angry right now. Because the man who created Number Three is calling him. Toomes is calling him.

_Toomes._

He blinks again, one more time for good measure, and then swallows.

“How do you know it’s him?”

Rhodey’s gaze is unflinching - of course it is; it’s _Rhodey_ \- but Tony can sense something there. Something that reads suspiciously like fear and _then_ it hits him. Toomes - Adrian _fucking_ Toomes - is trying to talk to Tony. The man who killed his child - because Tony may be at fault but at least it wasn’t him who pulled the _actual_ fucking trigger - is trying to _talk to him._ Adrian fucking Toomes is trying to - _do something._ He doesn’t even know; he can’t even begin to understand what the man thinks would come out of a conversation with Tony other than a lot of not-so-empty threats from every goddamn person in the Tower and Tony pinging his location so he can fly over to the man and put a crater-sized hole right through his forehead.

“I picked up,” says Rhodey. Hesitantly. He’s thrown by this and, judging by the heavy breath Tony can feel stirring up the hairs on the back of his neck, so is Bucky.

Three’s a crowd, then.

“You picked up.” Bucky’s voice is not questioning, not revealing anything about what he’s feeling. He steps up so that he’s standing next to Tony and he can see the soldier’s jaw locked - _hard_. It reminds him of Berlin, of Bucky’s breakout and the fight in the Terrorist Center and the cold, hard look that sustained in the soldier’s eyes no matter what he or Natasha or Sharon Carter did to deter him.

So, not playing nice. Fine. Tony can do that; he’s more than happy to do that. He’s more than happy to rip Toomes’s head off with his bare hands and put it on a spike outside the Tower if that’s what it takes to send the message that all the bad guys with ego complexes who mess up his kid will _not_ be receiving pardons any time soon.

“Yes,” says Rhodey, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I had set the computers to run some scans on Toomes’s breakout - see if there was anything useful - and then I went off for a sec. Came back and we had, like, seventeen missed calls from some encrypted number. Friday traced it to - what, Maine, or something? But the firewall is _heavy_ \- heavy enough to stop Fri from hacking without breaking a sweat. I called it back, because, you know, weird people hiding out in Maine with technology serious enough to block the most advanced piece of artificial intelligence from tracing the location are generally not people you wanna ghost, right?”

Tony nods, mostly because he feels like that’s something he’s supposed to do here. His brain has gone from total shell-shocked silence to firing at a hundred thoughts a second, most of them some variation of _Toomes is calling_ and _Toomes did that to my kid, Toomes did_ that _to my kid._ “Firewall,” he forces out. _You cannot fail him again, Stark._ “Yeah. Okay. What -” _Toomes did that to Peter._ “Uh - what - _what_ does he want, exactly? I’m hoping not civility. Does he want civility? Did you tell him that civility kind of got thrown into the fucking sun about - _six_ _months_ ago? Is this, what, is this a truce? Is he -”

“Tony.” Rhodey’s voice is calm, too calm. He steps forward, closing the distance between them and Tony has to fight every single atom in his body that’s screaming for him to run, to run and run and run and not stop until Toomes has been found and he is sitting in that holding cell instead of Tony’s kid. Or dead. Dead works too.

He breathes out, sharp and loud. _Toomes killed him,_ is all his brain can produce. _Toomes killed him._

Breathe. Anger is starting to replace the panic that had been threading its way through his lungs, blazing and white-hot. _Burning_.

_I’m coming for him, Stark, and he’s going to be damn sorry he ever stuck his stupid little nose in my business when I catch him._

“Tony,” Rhodey says with just a shred enough of urgency to wrench him out of the searing fog of poorly restrained anger and grief and the never ending loop of _Toomes is here, Toomes is here, Toomes is here._ He breathes out again - still burning - and grits his teeth.

“Here,” he mutters. “All cylinders firing, okay, so - god. _God.”_

“I know.”

“He - what - _what_ does he want?”

“To talk.” Rhodey’s face is dark. Tony can feel Bucky shift fractionally back beside him, like the man is just waiting for Toomes to pop out from behind a piece of furniture so he can lunge at him.

“He wants to talk.” Bucky’s voice is gravely, like metal scraping along rocks. Again, it doesn’t sound like a question. More like a cold, disbelieving statement. Like the notion of Toomes _talking_ to them is so unprecedented it’s almost embarrassing, which it almost is. Though embarrassing might not be the world Tony would use. Dangerously infuriating, maybe.

“You understand the point of me saying things in the first place iso you don’t have to say them directly afterwards, right?” Rhodey quips. “I mean, if _you_ would like to explain what the fuck Toomes is doing, by all means, go ahead.”

“I’m getting a read of the situation.” Bucky’s hand drifts somewhere down towards his waist, no doubt where there’s a healthy assortment of weapons kept.

“Really? Cause it feels more like -”

“Alright,” Tony interrupts loudly. There’s a cacophony of fear and anger playing out in the back of his head and Rhodey and Bucky’s aggravating bickering isn’t doing anything to help. “I’m going to go leave hate mail of some variety in Toomes’s inbox. You two stay here and, I don’t know, keep bickering like an old married couple, or something.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Rhodey says, turning away from Bucky to give him a sharp glare. Beside him, Bucky turns his blank-and-yet-vaguely-irritated-gaze onto Tony. “You are not talking to him alone.”

Of course he is. He made up his mind in _that_ regard not two seconds after Rhodey walked through the door. He’s been waiting six months for a lot of things - Peter to come back, a decent night’s sleep, some semblance of normality to return to his life, Peter again - but one of the most pressing ones, aside from all things Peter, has been finding the person that hurt Peter. Just finding them, nothing else. He had always planned on dealing with the question of _what_ he would do to them, exactly, after he, you know, actually _found_ the person in question.

And now the person - _Toomes -_ has been found. Or, technically, they had been found by him, but Tony was willing to let technicalities slide in the face of a conversation with the man. He was willing to let a lot of things slide, actually, including any reservations about the whole flying-to-Maine-blowing-a-crater-through-Toomes thing, which was exactly why he wanted to talk to Toomes first _alone._ Just the two of them. Just him and Peter’s murderer and every single stacking feeling he’d been carrying around since the fated day six months ago.

“He’s calling for me,” Tony says and it sounds narcissistic but, again, totally willing to let that slide - and besides, he reminds himself, Rhodey’s survived Tony trying to beat he shit out of him; he can stand a little bit of ego.

“He didn’t explicitly say that -”

“We both know that’s what he wants, sourpatch -”

“You weren’t the only one who lost him, Tony.”

Now _that_ makes him stop. Stop right in his tracks, stop right in his slow moving towards the door that feels a lot more like it’s being guarded rather than just stood in front of by Rhodey. He stops and just breathes. In and out.

_You weren’t the only one who lost him._

Tony would like to think he is not a selfish person by nature. Was? Sure, totally. Ten years ago - and not even that, really - and he wouldn’t have spared a thought for anyone else on the planet who wasn’t him - and sometimes Pepper and Rhodey and even Obidiah on a good day - at least not publicly. Privately, it was a different circumstance - he loved those close to him in his life with a passion so strong it almost ached - but it was publicly that counted, really. And he _had_ been selfish, undeniably so. He had seen the world through his own eyes and no one else’s, made every decision based off how it would make _him_ feel - for better and for worse - because that was just is he was raised. Howard Stark taught him a lot of things - ranging from the fastest way to defuse a letter bomb to how to gage someone’s mood based off how hard their footsteps fell when walking up the stairs to his room - but empathy was not one of them. That he had to learn by himself. And he had - mostly. He wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t the inherently selfish man he had been before Afghanistan, before Iron Man, before everything.

But this thing - this _disaster_ of galactic proportions - had brought the selfishness back into him a bit. Drop by drop. The funeral had been a way to honor Peter, to send his kid off to whatever beautiful afterlife Tony had believed him to be going to - if not already in - but it had also been a way for him to let go. For him to feel better, if not about himself then just about the mess in general. It had been a vague, ineffective, _selfish_ stab at making himself feel better. And he knew in the all-consuming-ness of it that his grief made him act like he _was_ the only one who had lost Peter and maybe it even felt that way sometimes too, but that wasn’t it.

Everyone had lost Peter. May had lost her nephew, her veritable son. Ned and MJ had lost their best friend in the whole world. Pepper had lost the kid who always cheered her up when she was stressed and who she always made a plate of snacks for whenever he came over. Happy had lost his driving companion who always kept him entertained - though he was loath to admit it. Rhodey had lost his Mario Kart partner and ‘protegé’, as he liked to say; the kid who had grown on him so much he had started to think of him as just as much _his_ kid as Tony did. Bucky had lost the boy who he’d formed the surprising bond with; the boy who Tony knew was nothing but gentleness and understanding to the soldier, who did everything he could to make Bucky feel safe. Queens had lost its best defender.

They had all lost. They had all lost Peter.

“But I’m the only one who’s fault it was.”

Because that was it, wasn’t it? That was the heart of the matter, that was why Tony’s grief felt so deep and intense and magnified. Because it was on _him._ Because _he_ had made the promise to keep the kid safe, because _he_ had sworn to everyone that the Vulture was the worst thing Peter would ever experience.

And he had broken it spectacularly.

Rhodey's face creases along the brow and he gives Tony a look that was nothing but heavy, _heavy_ sadness. Tony swallows back another golf ball and cleared his throat. The anger has disappeared slightly - not gone, never totally gone - leaving a cold sort of emptiness in its place.

“I’m going to talk to Toomes,” he says into the silence, into the emptiness, into the hole and aching thought of Peter - Number Three, the kid - sitting alone in the holding cell. “Come if you want.”

And before Rhodey can speak, before Bucky can speak, before he can lose the tight grip he’s been keeping on everything since the funeral, since the shot, Tony slides past Rhodey and walks through the kitchen doorway.

“Friday,” he says once he’s a few feet away. “You with me?”

“Yes, sir.” If she hears the shake in his voice or picks up on any of his vitals that are probably dangerously off the charts - what’s new, really? - she doesn’t say. Just blinks a light overhead as he makes his way down the hallway and towards his study.

His feet are loud against the hardwood floor. The noise echoes around the hall. The only footsteps are his. Rhodey and Bucky aren’t following. He half-wishes they would. In the silence, Peter’s voice is starting to creep into fill the cracks.

_I’m sorry - T-tony, I know you’re g-going to - I know you think this is y-your fault and it - not, its not, you - no, it’s not - you - you did e-everything you c-could._

He grits his teeth. The kid had finally, after months and months of Tony practically begging him to, started to see Tony as an individual, as just _Tony_ \- or Mr. Stark, really - not as a hero, not as Iron Man, nkt as his childhood idol, but just as a person. Just as a man with a laundry list of flaws. But some of the original hero worship remained, despite his best efforts.

The kid couldn’t blame him for anything if he tried, Not really,

_I’m so grateful and you - you - I love you, Mr. Stark? Mr - yeah - I love you._

“Sir?”

_I l-love you and I’m sorry._

“Sir!”

The note of mechanical concern in Friday’s voice snaps him back into reality, back into the Tower instead of god-knows how many miles away in that stupid, stupid bunker. He blinks.

_Toomes._

“Check the call log, Fri. What’s coming up?”

There’s a bit of a pause as he throws the door open to his office and steps inside, flinging himself down on one of the chairs. He digs his StarkPhone out of his pocket and sets it on the table, opening up the screen and projecting it in front of him. The call log opens up and, despite himself, Tony gives a low whistle through his teeth.

“Seventeen missed calls from an unknown and mostly untraceable number, as I understand Colonel Rhodes informed you of.”

“Yeah, he -” Tony blinks at the long string of missed calls, brain turning slowly. _Toomes,_ it offers up. _Toomes._ “Yeah, he really wasn’t kidding, huh?”

“No, sir. Would you like me to call Toomes back? I gather from his and the Colonel’s that the man was prepared to wait for you to contact him back.”

Tony can’t miss the malice dripping off his AI’s voice as she spits Toomes’s name out and, again, despite himself, he grins. _That’s my girl._ “Yeah. Yeah, let’s see what this motherfucker wants.”

“Calling _Toomes,_ sir.”

The line rings for all of three seconds before there’s a click.

He’s picked up.

For a secind Tony just breathes. Breaghes and wrestles his anger back into a tiny little box and shoves it away.

Then Toomes speaks. “Hello, Stark.”

And the anger explodes so hard he swears stars start popping in his vision. _Mjrderer,_ thenvoice screams. _You fucking murderer_.

For once, Tony agrees with its sentiments, He fists his hands on the table top and swallows.

“Toomes.”

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Well, you’ve been blowing up my inbox like a kid with a high school crush, so I figured I should see what’s up. How you been? Brainwashed any other kids recently?”

There’s a pause and Tony could swear he could hear Toomes chuckling. “I hear you’ve gotten your hands back on Peter. How long do you think that will last?”

“As long as there's breath in my body,” Tony snaps. “You’ll get him back if you pry him out of my cold, dead fucking hands, understand? You’re _done_ with him, Adrian. Done.”

“You’re not calling the shots anymore, Stark.”

“Actually, I am. But it’s cute you think you still are.”

“He’s mine, Stark. _Mine,_ I _made_ him.”

“You _destroyed_ him,” Tony spits. His nails are biting into his palm. _Breathe. Breathe._

“I unlocked his full potential. Made him into something the Winter Soldier wished he could’ve been. You should be proud.”

Tony has to actively restrain himself from lunging through the phone and strangling Toomes with his bare hands. Or just screaming. Not for the first time - and probably not for the last - Tony thinks about how easy it would be to kill Toomes. How little regret or remorse he would feel. He generally doesn’t like killing people - too much like the arms dealer days - but he knows he would feel noe of the guilt that came them if he killed atomes. None of it. Relief, probably. Vicious satisfaction. A cold, dark part of him _wants_ to kill Toomes, is holding out in the knowledge that he will be able to do that someday.

But Peter would not want that.

It’s stupid - so stupidly naive and _good_ of the kid - but Tony knows in his heart that Peter would nkt want him to do that. He would want Tony to be lenient, to be merciful. Maybe because Toomes’s actions were directed at him and Tony knows the kid hadn’t been that convinced that he was worth protecting - or avenging - even _before_ he became Number Three. Maybe because it’s just how Peter is - good. Gentle. Compassionate. Always willing to see a situation to its end, even if the easy way would be killing off the problem - sometimes especially if that was the case. He believed everyone deserved a second chance - or at least the aborted version of one that started with the someone in question living out the rest of their life in the highest security prison on the planet.

Whether or not Peter still thinks that is a totally different question. Whether or not Peter still _exists_ \- never mind has the capability to think for himself in the first place - is a whole other _field_ of questions, and one that he cannot enter right now.

_Stay calm. Stay calm and you stay in control._

So, who knows what the kid in the holding cell wants. But the old Peter wouldn’t have wanted Tony to kill Toomes. Even after all this. Even after the ferry and the plane crash and the fight on Coney Island and the parking garage and all the million other instances of suffering that poor excuse for a piece of shit put his kid through that still makes Tony’s blood boil when he thinks about them.

Peter would want Tony to show mercy,

 _Fine_. He can do that.

He blinks. Swallows. Shoves the entirely too satisfying image of blasting Toomes into the next century out of his head and speaks.

“I could kill you without _blinking_ , Toomes. Without breaking a fucking _sweat_ .” Mercy he can do, but sympathy? Civility? Tony would rather blow himself into the next century. Besides, it’s not like he’s _lying,_ or anything _._ Still, he attempts to dial it back a little, breathing in slowly before carrying on. “But for the sake of the shred of self-control I have left in me and my desire to not have charges of aggravated homicide hanging over my head, I’m gonna give you a deal. Okay?”

The line crackles for a second. When the sound comes back, he can hear Toomes laughing, soft and low. The sound shoots right up through the base of Tony’s spine and stops somewhere in his chest, reverberating around the space. He grips the edge of the desk.

“Sure,” Toomes says after a pause. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

Swallowing back another wave of unchecked fury, Tony white-knuckles the table some more and exhales. “You give us your location. Or, no, better yet - just come down here. You know know where the fucking tower is, buddy, so you show up. Bring all your goons, your stupid thugs, your weapons, your stupid fucking car, whatever. Just bring yourself. We’ll prosecute you, charge you with everything from kidnapping to psychological abuse of a minor to conspiracy to three dozen homicide counts. You go to prison because there’s no way in heaven or hell you find any scumbag willing to defend you, much less one who can beat _my_ fucking lawyers. And you stay there until the universe _finally_ realizes your unfit to breathe the same oxygen as people like Peter Parker and kills you.”

“And if I don’t agree to this?” Toomes’s voice is light and confident and it makes Tony want to smash something large and heavy into a brick wall. Like Toomes’s head.

“Then I find you - because, face it, _buddy_ , there’s no hiding from Tony Stark - and I kill you. Simple as that.”

“You really think you can find me, Stark?” The line crackles as the man laughs again. “Your ego -”

 _“My ego,”_ he forces out, only-half bothering to keep the venom from dripping off his voice. “Is out of the question here, Adrian. I’m just giving you the facts. I’ve done everything from fly in and out of wormholes to fight a walking supercomputer and I’ve survived it all. I have access to the best tech in the country - the goddamn planet, even. I could find you without _thinking_ about it. There is nothing - _nothing_ \- you have that will stop me.”

“True,” Toomes says, voice still too light and too confident and something is wrong, something is very wrong. He should be _scared;_ he _deserves_ to be scared - why isn’t he? “But let’s say I got an, ah, a little _donation_ of sorts. A trade-off, really.”

“Donation?” he echoes. His heart is pounding.

“Yes, donation. You’re a big fan of those, I believe. Always handing them out like goodie bags at the scene of your latest global fuck-up. But, yes. I reverted a donation. Both parties had mutual interests that could be achieved only through collaboration, and -”

“Cut the shit,” Tony snarls, nails making marks on the top of the desk. “Who are you working with?”

“Good friends of yours, I believe. They have expertise in this matter, and they just want to see you Avengers gone. I, well, I have no love for you either. Or the Parker kid.”

Of course. Tony leans back, releasing his hold on the desk. There’s half-moon crescents imbedded into the top and a sick feeling has opened up in the pit of his stomach. “HYDRA,” he mutters, more to himself, really. “You’ve made a deal with HYDRA.”

“Bingo.” The satisfaction dripping off Toomes’s voice makes him feel nauseous.

It makes sense, in hindsight. HYDRA owns the market on brainwashing and mind-controlling enhanced individuals. From the Winter Soldier to all the failed ones after him, it makes total sense that whatever tech Toomes used on Peter would come from them. It would also explain Toomes’s breakout - there was no _way_ the guy could’ve done that by himself. And if Toomes wanted to fulfill both his long and short-standing grudges against Tony and the Avengers and Peter respectively and all HYDRA wanted to do was topple the remnants of SHIELD - starting with, apparently, the Avengers - it only made perfect sense that they would be working together.

But Toomes was a nobody. Some lowlife, two-bit criminal who built a pair of wings and almost made it big. Key word being almost. Even if HYDRA had sought him out - and what were the odds of that, really? - the organization was still unstable. Still half-formed with no distinct leader, as far as Fury’s team could tell. Random operatives, guys with bones to pick, nothing more.

It wasn’t the HYDRA that had been the precursor to Ultron.

But the prickle of fear still passes over him. He grits his teeth against it.

“Perhaps you missed the bit where I said I will find you, no questions asked. Whatever operatives you’re working with, that doesn’t change anything. So you got tech. So you got firewalls. Good for you - what do you want, a fucking gold star?”

“I’m just leveling the playing field, Stark.” Cold confidence drips off Toomes’s voice and Tony can practically feel it seeping through the phone. God, he’s really just the fountain of narcissism, wasn’t he?

“Oh, don’t worry about that. You leveled everything in my goddamn life when you laid a fucking finger on my kid. After that, I can do anything - _will_ do anything. You don’t scare me,” Tony snaps. It’s half-true, honestly. His brain is too busy whiting out with rage to fit much room for any other emotions.

There’s a pause. Then, “No. But I scare Number Three. Whether or not he knows it is a different question, but he is terrified of me. And fear is such a useful motivator, don’t you think? Incredibly persuasive. Midtown is a great example of that.”

“You can go on and on about this Number Three bullshit, but that kid we have isn’t wiped clean. He’s remembered me - he’s continuing to do so. He’s still Peter. You can’t erase him.”

 _Liar, liar, liar,_ the voice in the back of his head screams. Tony digs his nails into his palms and says nothing. Peter is still there somewhere. Peter is not dead. Peter is not gone.

He can’t be. He _can’t_ be.

“Oh, I know,” Toomes continues in the same light, airy voice as before. “He has slip ups - blips. But I can control him long enough to get him to do what I want, which is kill you. And all your little Avenger friends too, if the opportunity arises.”

“And then what?” Tony asks, feeling very much like he doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Well, you know what the Winter Soldier got up to. And, with technology only improving, there's no telling what we can do.”

Something flashes through Tony’s mind. A deserted road, everything yellow-tinged and grainy. Blood staining the dirt. Glass everywhere. Smoke billowing into the sky. Choking and begging and blood, too much blood. Then another flash, this time the helipad with the tarmac sizzling in the June sun and scraping and shuffling and a face of a sixteen year old kid with the emptiest eyes ever and a burning, _searing_ pain and blood again, too much blood, always too much blood.

Yeah, he knows what the Winter Soldier got up to. Both versions.

“I’m going to say this one last time,” he says, voice barely above a snarl. “One more fucking time. Give yourself up.”

“Go to hell, Stark.”

 _“Fuck_ you,” he spits, slamming a hand down on the table. “ _Fuck_ you, you - you’re not walking away from this, you know that, right? You can get your tech and your HYDRA buddies and your ideas that Peter is somehow under your thumb, but at the end of the day you’re not the winner. You hurt my fucking kid, and that’s a no in my book. A wrong _look_ from you to him would be reason enough to blast you into the upper fucking atmosphere. But what you did - no. _No_. I’ve been waiting six months to find out who hurt him, and if you think I’m gonna play nice now, you’re out of your goddamn mind.”

“Stark -”

“No, _shut the fuck up._ You listen to _me._ Here’s what’s going to happen now, okay? Pay close fucking attention. I’m going to hang up, and then you’re going to do whatever you think will protect you. Run, hide, wave your guns around, whatever. Meanwhile _I_ will be tracking your location. I will find where you are and, if you move, I’ll find you again. And again, and again, and as many goddamn times as it takes to get you. There is no version - _no version -_ of this where you beat me; no version where you get away with this. You’re _fucked.”_

_“Stark -”_

He hangs up.

Sits there in silence, chest heaving. The call log blinks again, this time with one transmitted call to match the seventeen missed ones.

He’s not scared. Not scared of anything right now - not HYDRA, not Toomes and his empty threats, nothing.

He’s just angry,

Angry for himself, a bit - that he lost the last six months of his life to all-consuming grief and sadness and the endless hole in chest. Anger that the people around him had to go through similar feelings too.

But mostly he’s angry for Peter, for the kid in the holding cell. He’s angry that he’s been hurt, that he’s been kept in the clutches of a monster fueled by an equally-disgusting group of lunatics. He’s angry that Peter’s been tortured, brainwashed, and beaten half to death on several occasions by these people. Forget himself, he’s angry that the _kid_ has lost the last six months of his life, time that should have been spent patrolling and rewatching Star Wars and hanging out with his Ned and falling even more stupidly in love with MJ and teaching May how to bake and Tony how properly analyze eleventh grade literature and he’s just so, so fucking angry that Peter,s lost all of that. That he can’t _remember_ all of that. Sure, he’d have given anything to take away the trauma, take away the experiences and memories that woke the kid in the middle of the night, screaming with tears running down his face. He’d have oven anything for the kid to forget his uncle’s death, or his parents’ death, or the fight in Germany or the Homecoming debacle.

But not the good things. Not the pockets and swathes of happiness, the moments spent with the people he loved. Not all the joy and love and progress he’d made. None of that.

And it makes him so _indescribably_ angry that he has. Because if there was a list of people on the planet who deserved to have that happen to them, Peter would be at the very bottom of that fucking list. Scratch that, he wouldn’t even make it on it in the first place.

And he can’t take away the past. He can’t fix what’s happened, turn back the clock and stop Peter from being taken in the first place. But what he can do is make Toomes pay with every single breath led in his body for what he did. What he did to Peter.

Which is what he’s going to do now.

“Friday,” he barks suddenly, straightening up.

“Sir. How are you?”

He thinks for a second. “Ready. Ready to fix this. Run scans on the number, Break the firewall surrounding the location, I know you can. Put that on the back burner and call, uh, Steve. And Natasha. Brief them on what Toomes said and get them tracking down the HYDRA operatives who contacted Toomes. Then, when they’re found, tell them to blow them to fucking pieces. Or throw them in the Raft.”

“Yes, sir. I think Captain Rogers and Miss Romanov will appreciate the work greatly. It is my understanding that Captain Rogers has a very dum view of the organization HYDRA, as well as Miss Romanov.”

“Damn straight, Steve loves a good round of beating the shit out of HYDRA guys. It’s like destruction therapy for him. Oh, and tell the kid I’m coming down. We’ve got a few more things to discuss.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Busy, huh?”

Tony turns a little at the sound of a voice in the doorway. Rhodey’s gaze meets his, the same hard, unflinching one as before. Behind him, he can see Bucky lurking in the background, still looking tense as ever.

Tony Turns back to the StarkPhone, tapping out a few more instructions for Friday on the screen. “Yeah, well. Flames of revenge, all that.”

“I’m guessing the chat went well.” Rhodey steps up beside him, leaning against the desk.

Tony jerks his head. _For Peter._ “I gave him an out,” he says. His voice stays steady, He is not afraid. “Turn himself in for a life in prison.”

“Sweet deal.” Bucky’s voice now, pm his other side. “Cat see any objections with that. Better than you blowing a hole through him, probably. Though prison food sucks, from what I’ve heard, so, dunno. A dealbreaker, maybe.”

And Tony almost - _almost_ \- smiles. Not yet, though. After. When the mess really is finished. “He said no. Working with HYDRA - allegedly. I’m having Nat and Steve follow up with that right now. Friday's running a scan on the number now. She’ll find a location soon. I’m going to go talk to the kid again.”

The two of them step back as Tony stands, chair scraping the floor. He meets Rhodey’s gaze and is almost shocked by the icy resolve in it. Almost. He’s pretty sure it’s the same expression he’s wearing, too.

“What do you need us to do?”

And then Tony really _does_ smile, aching and unfamiliar as it feels. “What you do best. Hold down the fort, at least for a little. When Friday gets the location, send a drone out immediately. Scout the area. Then come get me, and we’ll go out there.”

“Kill him?” Bucky says. Something about his voice makes Tony think he’s probably excited about that prospect.

He just nods, his smile twisting into a sort of grim grimace. “If it comes to that, yeah.”

“Good.” Bucky’s gaze is hard bordering on flinty. His jaw is set with the same sort of resolve Tony feels pumping through him right now. The hole, the ache is still there, solidified into something more. Into a burning, a burning that tells him he _will_ make this right. Whatever it takes. “Let’s give him hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wwoowow sry for the slow updates....i’m at a camp and i have like 0 time o write...things are getting FUN tho...very exciting. also we were all robbed of any rhodey bucky interaction so here u go....giving the ppl what they deserve 
> 
> thank u guys for the support as always<333
> 
> (also shameless self promo u should go ahem read my ned fic ahem the unimaginable light ahem it is gonna be fun thank yew)


	19. ravine

His dreams are filled with fire and sand, with concrete and endlessly dripping water and screaming. Screaming that reverbates around his brain and shoots straight from his ears to a dark corner somewhere in his chest. Screaming that takes him too long to figure out is coming from him.

_ My name is Number Three _ , he thinks, somewhere in between dreams, somewhere in the vague and fuzzy state of wakefulness.  _ My name is Number Three. _

The words have no effect. They are just words.

_ My name is Peter Benjamin Parker _ , he tries. 

Nothing.

A light outside the cell flickers on and off. There’s a dull buzz of electricity floating around the room that he knows he shouldn’t be able to hear but he can.

Because he’s Number Three. Because He’s Peter Parker. Because he’s special.

The dreams rage on and on and on.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Black Widow and Barnes have not returned since their last round of questioning. Tony Stark has not returned since the visit.

He cannot tell how that makes him feel.

Something inside him has broken, he decides, eyes idly tracing a pattern of grooves and faint cracks that run along the ceiling above him. Something inside him cracked the second Tony Stark walked into the room and shattered into a billion pieces the second he realized he recognized the man.

He does. Part of him does. The part of him is small and scared and cannot tell  _ why  _ he recognizes Tony Stark, but it does. It sees him - goatee, sunglasses, gentle hands, AC/DC shirts, brilliant eyes - and recognizes him. That part of him knows Tony Stark.

Knew. Past tense. He, as he is now, does not know Tony Stark. He, as he is now - laying there, silent and unblinking - does not feel anything when he thinks about hat man. When he thinks about that conversation, when he thinks about anything that’s happened over the last few weeks.

(Or months, Or years. Time is foggy now. Irrelevant, he figures. Doesn’t matter how long it’s been; he’s equally fucked no matter what).

But Number Three does. Number Three feels anger so hot and corrosive it might as well be acid. Number Three feels the ingrained, natural desire to hurt, to stop, to kill. Number Three wants to kill Tony Stark; has been living his life as he knows it all banking on the idea that he will get to do so someday. Number Three has a mission, and he intends to complete it.

Still, that part of him protests. Cries out - in fear but also in an anger that threatens to rival that of Number Three’s. That part - the one that knows Tony Stark - almost physically recoils at the idea of laying. finger on Tony Stark.

That part  _ loves  _ Tony Stark. Has always done so and always will.

That part is Peter. That part is whatever’s left of Peter,

Which means he is -  _ was _ \- Peter. Once. 

And that terrifies him. For all his languid apathy; for all his staring at the ceiling and not moving when someone comes downstairs; for all his calm acceptance that he will die very painfully and probably very soon, the fact that he was once Peter Parker terrifies him. The fact that the face he saw in the mirror at Midtown is Peter Parker’s  _ terrifies _ him.

Because he, as he is now, is not Peter Parker. He is in the body of a boy who he does not know, does not understand, does not share anything with. He cannot remember anything about Peter Parker - about himself - not his birthday, not his street number, not his parent or family or friends. He and Peter Parker are strangers - total, compete strangers.

And yet he  _ is _ Peter Parker. Tony Stark thinks he is Peter Parker. Black Widow and Barnes and Captain America al think he is Peter Parker.  

Sir must think he is Peter Parker, too. Even despite all his insistences that he is Number Three and no one else.

He is not Number Three either, though. That name, that identity feels as foreign to him as the of Peter Parker. There is the difference that he at least somewhat understands Number Three. He remembers who that is, what he wants, why he wants what he wants. He knows what Number Three has done and what he is supposed to do - what he has been  _ trained  _ to do.

And it makes him feel sick.

Because he is in a grey zone now. He is not Number Three, he is not Peter Parker. He is a silent observer of both people.

But the grey zone is less of a zone and more of some precarious tightrope suspended over a ravine filled with jagged spikes and howling wind. He is balancing these two people that he is supposed to be, but not very well. Not in a way that is sustainable. He will fall. He will fall to one end, to one person.

And that maybe is the most terrifying thing of all. 

Because he does not want to be Number Three. He does not want to kill, he does not want to hurt anyone anymore. He does not want to finish his mission.

But that just leaves Peter Benjamin Parker. And maybe he is less opposed to being him, but there is one fundamental issue there.

He does not know how to be Peter Benjamin Parker. He does not even know who that is anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case u were wondering how Peter is doing....it’s Not Good
> 
> sry this is so short (only like 900 smthin words wow)!! there is another more concrete peter pov chap in the works it just didn’t make sense to put all together with this bit...hoping to have it out by tonite :-)
> 
> ALSO i am so sorry for the EMBARASSING number of typos these have when i publish them....my spell/grammar check is ass and it doesn’t pick up on things and i proof read things maybe like once every 4 years....but IM SRY i promise i’m semi literate just bad at typing....Apologies...


	20. snap

The next time he hears footsteps, they don’t stop until they’re right outside his door.

He doesn’t look up immediately - the new apathy that’s suddenly taken hold of him is making him surprisingly sedentary. It’s only as he hears the now-familiar beeping that indicates the cell door being opened that he raises himself up into a sitting position on the bed.

In retrospect - and just looking at it now - the cell seems easy enough to break out of. The walls are a thick plexiglass-type material but everything is, as far as he can tell, controlled by a basic-looking control panel on both the inside and outside of the cell - including the opening and closing of the door. If he had the right tools - even a metal stick of sorts and a piece of paper and pencil - he could probably crack the passcode. Then again, it is Stark technology he’s talking about, so probably not as breakable as he hopes.

And, then again, he also doesn’t care one bit about getting out now.

But he can’t deny the stirring of _something_ in the pit of his stomach - even if they’re all Peter’s emotions they’re still affecting _him_ too - as the door hisses open and in walks Tony Stark, looking for all the world like he’s about to pass out right then and there.

If he had thought the man looked beat the first time they had talked, he looked like a veritable walking corpse this time. The shadows under his eyes looked more like bruises than anything now, there was the beginnings of a fully fledged beard on his face and the man’s hair was sticking up at every angle possible, like he’d spent the past three days dragging his hands furiously through it. This time, the flicker of distinct concern he felt in his stomach wasn’t even entirely Peter’s emotions. Tony Stark looked a mess.

“I have been awake for three days,” the billionaire announces, unceremoniously dropping himself into the same chair as last time. He pulls a thermos out of nowhere, pops the cap off, and takes a long drink. “Three days. 72 hours.”

He nods, because he’s not entirely sure what else he’s supposed to do.

“To be fair,” Tony Stark continues, setting the thermos down with a metallic clang. “Record is - what, a hundred and - something? Something. But, still. I meant to come talk again, by the way” A prickle of _something_ passes through him - _Peter._ “Got a little, uh, sidetracked. Made it all the way up to northern Maine before the signal changed again. New Mexico. Then it changed again to Florida, then to Hawaii, then to Alabama - because _that’s_ somewhere I’ve always wanted to go, _god_ . And, of course, searches were totally inconclusive. Can’t believe it took us three days to figure out the signal we were getting was bogus - it’s currently saying he’s in both Seoul and about five feet below me. I mean, _god_ , aren’t we the Avengers, or something?”

He briefly wonders how it’s possible for him to feel even more confused after someone has explained something to him as Tony Stark sighs loudly, taking another sip from the thermos. “I mean, hypothetically speaking, this is fine and Friday will crack the firewall - the actual one - and we’ll find him by tomorrow. Hypothetically speaking.”

He blinks. Then again. Then, “Who is Friday?” He’s not sure of much anymore, but he’s almost fairly confident that that’s a day of the week.

Something inside him tells him that that was a stupid question, that he knows _exactly_ who Friday is. But the voice is elusive and grates on his nerves - _he can’t remember, why can’t he remember?_ \- so he shoves it down.

The man heaves a sigh that is too tired and too small and too - broken, in a way - to be coming out of the legendary Tony Stark. “Hah. She’s my, uh, AI system. Runs the house for me, gangs up on me with Pepper, all that stuff.”

Another _something._ Harder to ignore. “Who is Pepper?”

 _You know this,_ the voice inside him screams. _You know who she is_.

The voice sounds high and panicky, almost, and reminds him disturbingly of a teenage boy he feels he should know. Peter. Sounds like Peter.

But he is not Peter, so he does not know. That doesn’t stop the tidal wave of frustration that slams into him because, _god_ , he just wants to _remember._ He wants to know. That’s all he wants.

A pained expression crosses Tony Stark’s face. He leans back a little, pressing a fist to his mouth. His eyes are dark and shadowy and look straight through him, like the man can understand every single thing about him perfectly just with a single glance.

Something about it feels familiar - achingly familiar. This is all familiar - this man, this room, this building, this city, this body. Tony. Something feels so, painfully familiar about Tony Stark.

He wants to remember - not Peter, but _him. He_ wants to. Because he cannot - will never be Peter Parker again, but he knows enough about turnboy to onowntuat the man sitting in front of him is all sorts of special. He is safe - Tony Stark is the embodiment of safety for Peter Parker so, by default, the man is also the embodiment of safety for him, too.

And he wishes so, so bad that he could remember why.

“God, you really don’t remember anything, huh?”

The question is soft, almost like it’s not supposed to be answered. It certainly feels rhetorical; Tony Stark should know by now that he doesn’t - that he can’t. He didn’t spend days and days getting grilled by two master assassins for nothing, right?

But he still answers. “No.”

Tony Stark nods. He looks sad. A deep, heart-clenching sort of sad. Somewhere inside him, he can feel Peter’s heart clenching too.

“I’m sorry.”

He says it softly too. He’s not sure what made him say it. He’s not sure if he wants to take it back.

Apologies are familiar across the board. Both Peter and Number Three - who is, thankfully, staying nice and quiet for the time being, only occasionally sending a flicker of anger through him each time he speaks - are used to saying them. He knows what Number Three has to be sorry for - sloppy training, weakness, poorly executed missions, slackness, not remembering things, asking stupid questions, not being fast enough, not being smart enough- the list is endless. He wonders what Peter Parker has to be sorry about, though.

_Peter. Thought it was a name a good kid would have._

_I’m not good,_ something inside him snarls with such a ferocity he almost flinches. Jesus.

“It’s okay,” Tony Stark’s soft voice cuts through his thoughts. Somewhere deep inside him, something stirs. Something, something, always something. Never enough to tell him anything - not enough to tell him now why his chest is twisting so painfully it’s like someone’s trying to separate his ribs.

He shakes his head because there is nothing - _nothing_ \- about this that is okay. Nothing. He can’t remember anything and Tony Stark looks broken and this is _all his fault;_ why can’t he remember - _why can’t he remember?_

“It’s not,” he forces out. He’s spiraling, swaying on the tightrope. He cannot slip - he cannot. Slipping will give Number Three an opportunity to walk back in and then the changes of Tony Stark leaving the dell in one piece will reduce drastically. But he moves closer and closer to slipping because he _cannot fucking remember anything_ and he wants to so, so bad. “It’s not, it’s not, it - I - I _should_ \- I have to - I _know_ you, he - Peter - doesnhut I - I _can't remember,_ I - god -”

 _What are you doing?_ a familiar face snarls and he balls his hands into fists, the nails digging into his palms. Number Three. _Shut the fuck up. Calm down._

No insistences to kill Tony Stark yet. Small victories. He forces a breath in and out of his body, focuses his gaze on Tony Stark’s left kneecap and relaxes his fists.

_Can’t remember, can’t remember, can’t remember, can’t -_

“It’s okay,” Tony Stark says again, and it sounds like he means it. He’s shifted forward a little so his elbows are resting against the tabletop and his hands are extended outwards in a gesture that might be placating, he can’t tell. “Kid - it’s okay.”

He starts to shake his head again - _can’t remember, can’t remember, can’t_ \- but Tony Stark is having none of it. He cuts him off with an easy wave of his hand.

“Kid,” Tony Stark says again and there’s a world of meaning behind that one word that he just doesn’t understand. “It’s not you doing this. You didn’t sign up for him to do this to you, you didn’t ask for any of this. What you’re going through is horrific and I am so, so sorry that I let it happen. I’m so sorry he’s doing this to you, but you have to understand me here, kid, okay? You have to. It’s not your fault, okay? It is not your fault.”

Something inside him is breaking again. It hurts. It shouldn’t - _this is unimportant,_ Number Three snarls - but it does.

Like a shot to the chest.

Like what he did to Tony Stark.

_Why did I do that, why did I do that, why did I fucking do that?_

_He’s your mission,_ Number Three hisses, now fully awake. _He’s your mission and you have to complete it, you cannot fail, you know what will happen if you fail -_

“I’m sorry I shot you,” he forces out and he can almost _feel_ Number Three trying to claw his way out, trying to cut the tightrope and make him - make Peter, the remnants of Peter - fall to the spikes himself.

_He’s your mission. He’s your job - you have to kill him. You have to kill him._

Tony Stark is looking at him with abject concern in his eyes and it takes him a second to figure out that it’s because he’s shaking. His whole body is vibrating.

_Weapons cannot fail._

“It’s okay, kid,” Tony Stark says with the same gentleness and, god, he _shot_ the man, why is being _nice?_ Why is he _forgiving_ him? “It wasn’t you. I know it wasn’t you. I forgive you.”

_Don’t, don’t, don't, dont -_

_You cannot fail, you were not made to fail, you were made for this, you cannot fucking_ fail _now._

“Kid?” The man’s voice is a lifeline and he wraps his whole hand around it, clinging on for dear life as Number Three tugs at his metaphorical heels, pulling him back to the equally metaphorical abyss. “Hey, kid, stay with me.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. He has to remember, he has to remember _now_ because he’s about to fall even though he _can’t,_ even though falling could lean never coming back, could mean never remembering this room and his body and his face and his feelings and Tony Stark. There will be no Tony Stark to remember if he falls because if he falls he will kill him, he will kill Tony Stark; he _cannot_ kill Tony Stark, he can’t, he can’t -  

 _There’s enough blood on your hands,_ hisses Number Three. _What’s one person more?_

He swallows back a mouthful of sand and glass. His pulse is too loud, thudding, echoing around his aching skull.

He needs to get out of here.

No, he needs to fucking _remember._

The blank spaces, the ghost limbs, the holes. He needs to fill them. He needs to become Peter Parker again.

 _He’s dead,_ Number Three hisses again _. He’s dead._

He shakes his head. Back presses against the cold wall of the cell. Tony Stark looks borderline scared, abandoning his seat and making his way slowly over towards him, hands extended. Placating. Like he’s a riled up animal.

“Kid -”

_Screaming and smoke as he stands on the sidelines, watching as concrete crumbles and wood beams give in on themselves. Watching as the building collapses to the floor. Greek - he doesn’t speak it but he knows enough to recognize it - floats in and out of his ears. He can taste ash and iron in his mouth. People are dying. People are dying in a building that is collapsing; a building that is collapsing because of him, because of the cores in his backpack. People are dying, people are dead and it’s because of him._

He presses his hands to his eyes. No, no, no, he’s not a murderer, he doesn’t want to kill people - he didn’t want to then. He didn’t - he couldn’t stop himself - it was Number Three, it wasn’t _him -_

 _It_ was _you. And you want this - you want to kill him. He’s your mission._

He doesn’t want to kill Tony Stark.

He does not want to kill Tony Stark any more than he wanted to kill the people in Greece, in Russia, in Hungary, in New York.

He does not want to kill people. He just wants to remember.

But he does, he _does._ Part of him screams at the concept - the parts tainted with and covered in Peter Parker - but other parts stare the idea down unflinchingly.

It’s what he’s been trained to do. Complete the mission. Carry it out to perfection, no matter the cost. No matter how _he_ feels about it. _Complete the mission._

Tony Stark is a foot away from him. His eyes are scared.

_Remember, remember, remember, remember -_

“Kid?”

He is not a kid, he is not a kid, how can he be a kid - Tony Stark’s kid - when he doesn’t know who he is or what he wants?

Tony Stark gets closer - too close. Not enough space, not enough control, not enough grip on the right tone. He can feel every vertebrae pressing into the wall, feel every atom in his body vibrating with tension. His breathing is loud, Tony Stark’s is louder.

He needs to leave. Now.

_I will not kill him, I will not kill him, I will not kill Tony Stark._

He cannot.

_Finish the mission._

He _cannot._

Tony Stark reaches out again and he can’t move away fast enough and it’s just for a second, just for one single second that the man's hand lays on his forearm.

Just one second.

But it’s enough.

—

_There’s sand and fire and smoke and the air is thick with it, thick with the burning, acrid smell and there’s blood, his blood all over him, hot and sticky and burning, everything is burning and he’s screaming, someone is screaming._

_“I’m trying to save you!”_

_But he’s too slow - always just a second too slow and the web snaps and a white-hot burst of sparks explode and Toomes crumples to the ground, wings in tatters._

_Blood drips into his eyes and around them, the lights of the fair twinkle on._

_—_

“Kid?”

—

_“What is your name?”_

_“Peter Parker. M-my name is Peter P-Parker.”_

_“Wrong answer, soldier.”_

_Every atom inside of him explodes as the machine turns on, the pulses of electricity thrumming through his body like someone’s beating him. His brain is cracking open, vision whiting-out with sheer, blistering_ agony; _reality is fraying at the edges, he can’t think, he can’t think, he can’t think. His brain is disappearing, the room around him is disappearing, and he is going_ _to die, die without saying goodbye to May or Ned or MJ or Tony. He is dying - his brain - everything - white-hot and screaming and the thoughts - his thoughts - are fading and he is alone, he is all alone._

_—_

“Kid? Kid?”

—

 _“Peter, hey. Hey, Pete._ Pete. _It’s me. Mr. Stark - it’s Mr Stark.”_

_He’s halfway between dreaming and awake; everything is still fuzzy and crackling around the edges and the nightmare sunk its claws in good that time and, in the dark, the glint from Mr. Stark’s glasses looks like the eyes of the Vulture and his breath won’t come - it’s like inhaling through cotton and glass - and he’s dying, he’s going to die, Toomes is going to kill him and he’s going to die all alone on the burning beach at Coney Island._

_But he won’t - he’s okay - Mr. Stark is here, one hand in his hair, other rubbing up and down his back. He cannot hear the man’s words - the blood is pounding too loudly in his head - but he is safe and he is okay and he will not die because Mr. Stark has him; Mr. Stark is here._

_—_

“Kid - kid, I don’t wanna touch you again, kid, please -”

—

 _Water. Water and metal and the smell of_ _something cold and rotting. He can’t breathe. The air won’t come. His lungs are collapsing, the pockets filled with water that tastes metallic and almost acidic. He forces out a breath, knees pressed up against the basin. Even in the darkness, he can tell his hands are shaking. Everything feels fuzzy. Neat time, he is going to drown. He knows it._

_“Three minutes. Impressive. Up it to three and a half.”_

_He cannot plead, cannot beg, cannot find a voice within him to ask for help, to ask them to stop. They will not stop - they never will. Begging is weakness, and weakness cannot be allowed. Weakness will get him a set of cracked ribs and blood in his mouth. Weakness is unforgivable._

_“You can do better,” a voice sneers. His heart is aching. His body is aching. He cannot breathe. Water drips into his eyes, stinging. “Weak.”_

_He is weak. That’s all he is now._

_—_

“Peter -”

—

_“So, you gonna ask MJ to winter formal?”_

_“W-what? Ned -_ no _, she’s - we’re just -_ Ned _-”_

_“Dude, chill. You guys would be so cute together. Like, unfair amounts of cute. Your babies would be, like, genetically perfect. For real.”_

_“Ned - Ned, we are not having babies? She’s -_ I’m - _sixteen, oh my god -”_

_“Come on, man, face it. You’re in love.”_

_“I am not in love.”_

_“Peterrrrr.”_

_“Okay, maybe a little bit! No babies, though. No babies.”_

_—_

“Peter, Peter please -”

—

_“I love you, Mr. Stark. Happy father’s day.”_

_“God. Wow, kid._ Wow. _I - god. I love you too. So much.”_

_—_

“Peter!”

And then he’s back.

And everything is quiet. The voices have stopped, the relentless confusion has stopped, the desperation to remember has disappeared entirely. A switch has been flicked. He breathes in and out and it feels totally normal. Feels right. He is in control.

He can’t even remember why he wasn’t beforehand. It’s unimportant.

The man - Iron Man, Anthony Stark - is half a foot away from him. His eyes are shining.

_Mission objective: take Iron Man down._

And there is Iron Man. Unarmed. Weakened - physically and emotionally. Defenseless. And here he is. He is Number Three. He is a weapon. He never fails.

He breathes in. Iron Kan does not move. He is watching, waiting for Number Three to move first.

So he does. He clenches his jaw - _weapons do not fail, you do not fail -_ and lunges forward.

Straight for Iron Man’s throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls don’t kill me....:)


	21. punch

This is definitely not where Tony thought the conversation would be going when he walked into the cell.

Like, remotely. Stony silence? Fine. Jagged, confused, one-word responses? Totally expected. The kid actually  _ remembering  _ things? Pretty unlikely, but he’d comfortably saw off a limb to make that happen.

The kid lunging across the table, shoving the pointy end  _ right  _ into the center of his stomach -  _ little bitch  _ \- and reaching his hands out - the gesture plus the distinctly murderous look in the kid’s eyes telling him that he had every single intention of strangling Tony right then and there? Nope. He had not prepared for that. 

It’s good, probably, he thinks as he and the table and the kid go crashing to the ground, that shock is taking the reins and putting his body on autopilot without comment. He’s pretty sure there will be a time and place to deal with this next Peter-related threat on his life - whether he  _ wants _ to deal with it or not - but while the kid is actively trying to kill him, supposedly, is probably not the best time to delve into all of that.

“Fuck -” he spits out, rolling onto his elbows, shoving the table off of him. Why on earth did he make it so heavy? And pointy? Did he never once consider the possibility of a genetically modified teenage supersoldier would be trying to throw it at him at one point?

He’s an idiot. A colossal fucking idiot. fair thinking that he could win, for thinking that he can beat Toomes, for thinking that Peter would remember - for thinking that he’s given the kid anything notable to remember him for, for god’s sake. An idiot through and through.

Before he has any time to self-deprecate some more, there’s a scrabbling sound behind him and then something slams right into him, halting his progression of getting himself into a sitting position and shoving him back down to the ground. His face presses up against the floor and a hand tugs at his hair, forcing his neck down at an awkward position.

For a second neither of them move. Half of the table is still resting on Tony’s legs and the kid’s knees are pressing into his twisted back and one hand is an inch away from his face, fingers splayed out across the floor.

His nails are bitten down. Huh. He thought the kid had kicked that habit.

“Hi, Pete,” he says to the floor. 

Bad idea. The grip on his hair tightens. “My name,” a voice hisses from above him, all fury and coldness. “Is Number Three.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself this time. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The kid pulls his hand up and then down, trying to slam Tony’s face into the ground. He rolls at the last second, using the momentum to throw the kid sideways into the table and scramble to his feet. Peter - not peter, definitely not Peter - mirrors his motions, hopping into a standing position in a split second. He blinks once at Tony, who holds his hands up in a placating gesture - as if it will do  _ anything -  _ and then, scowling, lunges.

They tumble backwards again, Tony twisting mid-air so the kid lands on the bottom. He has all of two seconds to try and pin him down before the shock recedes and the kid starts thrashing - hard. They didn’t spar much before the whole Toomes thing - Peter was deathly afraid of ever hurting Tony and  _ Tony _ was honestly just as afraid that the kid would wipe the floor with him - but they’d done it enough for Tony to know that the kid is  _ strong.  _ Strong and quick, which is, currently, an  _ awful _ combination of traits to have, He gets a hold on one of the kid’s arms before the other comes swinging around, clapping the side of his head and making his whole head vibrate.  _ Ow. Fuck. _

The arm in question moves to wrap around Tony’s neck and pull him down and he gives into the momentum, over-balancing the kid and using his own force to flip them over and kick Peter off of him. He crashes over the table and lands in a heap on the floor, pausing for negative amounts of time before scrambling to his feet and fixing Tony with a glare that is decidedly murderous. 

“Please,” Tony pants. “Please don’t -”

Then the kid lunges again. Of course.

Like full on  _ flings  _ himself up over the table and straight through the air, straight at Tony, He doesn’t even have time to react as the kid twists mid-air so that his feet connect solidly with Tony’s chest and send him staggering back into the wall. Something crunches. His ribs, probably. The air is ripped out of his body as he leans against the wall, wheezing. He can’t breathe. He cannot breathe. Everything in his torso is on fire and he  _ can’t breathe and Peter is moving again, coming back and - _

He’s thrown against the floor with another well-timed swipe at his legs and shove to th3 chest. He lands on his shoulder - another crunch; that cannot be good - and, stunned, just lays there. Another wall of pain slams into him as the kid uses his knees as a springboard and lands straight on top of Tony's chest.

It’s animalistic, his fighting style. There’s no form, no structure. Something unhinged inside of Peter really has taken over. 

And, judging by the force behind all of the blows, he’s not fighting just to knock the air out of Tony. 

The first punch hits when his head is still ringing, air still isn’t coming into his lungs properly and the force behind it feels like it’s enough to crack concrete. He tastes blood, warm and salty.

Peter’s eyes are wild as he winds up again and takes another hit, this one to Tony’s sternum. 

_ Not Peter,  _ he thinks, thrashing furiously.  _ Not Peter. Number Three. _

But it’s Peter’s face, Peter’s hands, Peter’s everything that’s doing this, just like how it was on the helipad. And, just like the helipad, the same sick fear swamps him, paralyzing his muscles and limbs, pinning him down harder than the kid ever could. 

_ Peter is trying to kill me _ , he thinks with more urgency,  _ Peter is going to fucking kill me. _

His head spins. A fireball of pain passes through him as another punch connects with his eye. Blood drips into the unaffected one - where from, he has no idea. All he knows is that he’s pinned down and Peter is letting it rip and seems to have no sign of stopping and, oh my god, this is his  _ kid;  _ this is Tony’s kid and he’s going to kill him,  _ Peter is going to kill him. _

He thrashes harder. Curls up into a ball and explodes outwards and maybe the kid isn’t expecting it, maybe he just isn’t trying as hard as he could, but he’s knocked backwards and Tony leaps on him in a second, This time it’s his hands that to to pin Peter down, gripping onto his hair and pulling his head back.

“Fuck - you -” the kid hisses, His eyes are two twin black holes of annate Tony never in his worst nightmares would think could be directed at him. His stomach clenches painfully and he swallows back ash.  _ Breathe, Breathe. This isn’t Peter. _

The clenching stops for now , but Peter’s thrashing doesn’t 

“By the way,” he grunts, trying to pull the kid up into a standing position. “You’re grounded.”

The kid explodes outwards and Tony’s flung back onto the ground and Peter lands on him again and this time he’s too stunned to even raise a hand to stop the battery of blows at comes at him. Strike af5r strike after excruciatingly well-placed strike and his face feels like it’s splitting open, everything is searing with pain and he can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t to anything but taste blood and try and swipe back clumsily as Peter attacks and attacks and attacks.

_ Peter,  _ he thinks as he’s picked up and slammed down again. He wrenches away only to be grabbed onto again,  _ Pete. My kid, Pete. _

He’s lifted up again into a standing position. Legs won’t take it - can’t - he can't stand. Peter’s holding him up entirely, hands wrapping around his shirt, nails biting into his skin. He says something and it sounds like it’s coming from a million miles away. The kid is screaming, he realizes,  _ screaming _ something loud and wrenching and broken-sounding and Tony Tries to correspond through thick lips and a fog of pain but it’s the wrong move and Peter just resumes the barrage of blows. He’s not sure if he feels them anymore. Everything is on fire. 

He’s thrown into something - a wall, maybe - at some point, and then he fully loses the thread. Blacks out, maybe, He’s not sure. His body is burning and his head feels like it’s cracking in two and he doesn't even have brain space to be horrified that this is  _ Peter  _ doing this because every single atom in his body is currently devoted to searing with pain.

Something cracks inside him as he hits the ground again, Peter right on top of him. He’s not sure what. He barely even registers the pain throughout the fog.

Punch. Blood. He spits onto the floor. It looks red. 

He’s forced onto his back, ribs screaming in protest, and a hand wraps around his collar. Small hand, sixteen year old’s hand. A hand with a scar across one knuckle from the time DUM-E dropped a screwdriver on it. Hands he knows, hands he’s seen a million times before; fiddling with wires, making things out of spare parts, holding bowls and snacks and cups and plates, wrapped around Tony’s hand. He knows these hands, 

And they’re through to kill him.

But he won’t - he can’t fight back. Even if 50% of his body wasn’t offline with sheer agony, he couldn’t fight. 

Because it’s Peter. Because it’s his kid and if he knows anything -  _ believes  _ in anything - it’s the fact that he cannot hurt his own kid. 

Peter raises a hand again. Tony half-flinches, half-registering what’s going to happen. But he’s not going to stop it. He can’t.

“‘M not gonna hurt you, Pete,” he mumbles around what tastes like a mouthful of blood. “‘M not gonna f’ght you.”

The boy pauses, one hand still on Tony’s shirt collar, the other still raised. 

_ It’s working,  _ something dull inside him thinks.  _ It’s working, he’s stopping, he’s remembering. _

“Pete,” he says thickly. The kid flinches visibly, like Tony’s just slapped him, not said a name that used to be his. “Pete. ‘Sme. ‘S your - old man. ‘S Tony.”

He can feel the kid panting, feel his bony - too bony, he’s too skinny, too small for someone his age now - knees digging into Tony’s rib cage. His whole weight is pressed downwards in the attempt to keep Tony pinned down but it starts relaxing as he’s thinking, letting up slightly. The kid is realizing he doesn’t need to keep Tony pinned down forcibly. He’s not going anywhere,

He's not going to fight. He  _ refuses  _ to fight his kid.

The kid’s eyes are dark. Burning twin circles straight through Tony. He breathes out and the sound rattles around his chest, around his cracked ribs and out through his bloody lips.

Bloody because of his kid. Cracked because of his kid.

But he doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s not his fault. Tony meant what he said before the kid spaced out and flipped. None of this is his fault and none of it ever will be. This isn’t Peter, this isn’t his Peter anymore. Not right now, not during Midtown, not during the other bombings, not during the helipad incident, not during god-knows what else the kid’s done. That - none of that has been Peter. Sometimes he  _ is  _ Peter, like earlier, like during their first conversation. Like in th beginnings of a back-and-forth banger he’d have with Nat during the earlier questioning that she’d later tell him about. Those moments were when Peter came back out. Those moments are his kid.

This isn’t. Simple as that. So he can’t be mad, can’t even be resentful or pissed off anymore. Peter doesn’t have control of the situation and - as much as he’d like (or dread, really) to think that the kid secretly harbors some burning hatred against him - if he did, he wouldn’t be doing this. Peter would not him like this. 

But it’s still the kid’s body. Still his physical make-up. And, even if it might literally kill him, Tony can’t hurt that either, No matter who's controlling the mental steering wheel behind the face.

So he says it again, raises his neck up just a fraction to lock eyes with the kid. “I am not going to fight you,” he says as clearly as he can. The kid blinks. “I am not going to fight you.”

The kid’s expression contorts into one of a fury so strong and uncharacteristic it makes Tony’s stomach clench painfully.  _ It’s not him, _ he reminds himself firmly.  _ This isn’t him. _

The kid reads back, resisting his fist higher. It makes a solid connection with Tony’s cheek that’s perfectly timed it’s the kid re-engaging contact with his knee and Tony’s ribs and he fights back a growl of pain as stars pop in the corner of his vision.  _ Fuck.  _ Toomes certainly didn’t waste any time capitalizing off the kid’s super strength then, huh? “I will not fight you,” is all he says. Over and over again. Like a mantra. “I’m not gonna fi - fight you.”

Another punch. More blood. He closes his eyes against the dull burning that’s spreading its way across his face.

“Not gonna fight -”

The kid raises his whole torso off the ground and slams it back down onto the floor. Tony’s head makes a  _ sickening  _ crack as it collides with the concrete-like floor. His vision whites out at the edges and, when it goes back to normal, the kid’s face is mere inches from his. His eyes are narrowed and dark and icy as always but - and maybe it’s just the sickening waves of pain and smell of what he thinks could be is own blood that’s making him crazy - he can see glints of the light, warm gaze Peter Parker always had. Like fire under ice, impossible and yet burning on and on and on.

“‘M not -”

The punch rips the words right out of his mouth and, even then, even with a mouthful of his own blood and definitely broken ribs and the heavy air of defeat handing over him, he knows the kid is holding back. He’s seen him in action before - pre-whatever training Toomes did to make the kid like, six billion times stronger that he already was - and it’s a force to be reckoned with. Peter could take Cap or Bucky in hand-to-hand combat and hand them their asses in five minutes. He could kill Tony now without breaking a sweat.

But he’s not. He’s holding back.

And Tony can tell the kid is getting confused by it.

He leans in again, nearly nose-to-nose with Tony. He can feel the kid’s hands wrapping around his neck, holding him down - as if he would or could get up and fight back now - fingers just starting to dig into a pressure point. “First me,” he hisses in Tony’s ear. “Fight me.”

It sounds more like a plead, like a beg, than an order. Tony just shakes his head and the hands tighten.

He might actually die like this. At the hands of Peter Parker’s semi-destroyed consciousness. What a way, he thinks idly, half-loopy with pain and lack of oxygen. He tries to thrash back, shove the kid off, do something to get oxygen into his body that  _ just isn’t coming _ , no matter how forcefully he inhales.  _ What a way. _

“No,” he spits out. His vision is swimming, distorting and ripping down the middle. He’s ascending, maybe. Dying. Probably not - still hurts too much. Still, he speaks. “Not gonna fight you. I love you. ‘M not gonna fight.”

And  _ then  _ the kid really flinches. Flinches so hard it looks like he’s just been electrocuted. He drops Tony’s shirt like it's searing hot, all of a sudden, and stares dead into his eyes.

There’s something there. The fire under the water. The remnants of Peter - the real Peter.

Tony blinks back. Opens his mouth to speak and just coughs. Okay, so no speaking. Fine, that’s fine, this is fine. His body is milliseconds - or one more punch - away from cracking in half, his kid is about to kill him, he can barely see straight, but this probably constitutes as an okay situation.

Then Peter stands up, jerking backwards. His eyes rove around the room, taking in the apparent scene of destruction around them, before shooting back down to Tony. 

A look of horror passes his face, so strong Tony almost feels it himself through the fog and the blackness crowding the edges of his vision. He’s about to pass out, he realizes, and that thought is not a welcome one. Peter is either about to bolt or finish the job and, either way, he feels like he should probably be conscious. 

_ He’s going to kill you, he’s going to kill you, Peter is going to kill you. _

He breathes. Chest aches - broken ribs, definitely. It’s like inhaling glass,mits like the helipad where he just count get enough air no matter how hard he tried. He’s stuck in a goddamn time loop with the kid, where every step forward is coupled with about sixteen steps back. Where every instance of remembering is coupled with a beating, an explosion, a shut down.

He wants to scream. He wants to find Toomes and throw him through a window. 

He wants to close his eyes and never wake up, not at least until this mess has been fucking fixed by someone who isn’t him because, yeah, it’s definitely his fault, but he dined stem to be doing a great job of making things any better right now. Most of those attempts seem to end up  with him in similar positions to this. 

Broken in half. Bleeding. Barely conscious.

Peter is still there -  _ he hasn’t finished it, why hasn’t he finished the mission? _ \- still staring. His mouth is half-open. Face is still horrified.

Tony wants to tell him it’s okay, It’s not his fault, it’s okay. He can’t speak, though, Can’t open his mouth without his whole body feeling like it’s being ripped in half,

_ It’s okay,  _ he tries to say with his eyes.  _ It’s going to be okay.  _

Peter steps back. His gaze doesn’t leave Tony’s. It’s unreadable, now. The blackness isn’t helping.

Then another step. Then another, then another.

And then he runs.

Tony’s about to start feeling something - anger, sadness, grief all over again, maybe - but then the blackness hits him like a train, hits him like Peter’s fist, and, before he can so much as take another breath, he passes out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tony rlly let #3 beat the shit out of him bc Irondad instincts told him Can’t Hurt Kid....when will ur fave ever...also tis late and i’m half conscious apologizing for the copious amount of spelling mistakes i probabyl missed now....Sorry I am Illiterate... also i still can’t write fight scenes Oops....


	22. window

He makes it three or four blocks from the Tower before the cramping in his lungs finally forces him to stop.

Skidding to a halt, he surveys the city around him. No idea what time it is, no idea what day it is. The sun is currently obscured by a blanket of clouds, turning everything in the street a faint grey color. It’s mostly quiet out, save for a few stray pedestrians - parents and their kids, a few teenagers, one old couple meandering around the opposite side of the street.

A few suspicious looks get tossed his way. He winces, turning to face the wall of the building he’s stopped at. He probably looks a mess. He’s been in that goddamn prison for god-knows how long now, but he’s pretty sure he isn’t looking too clean and tidy. Not that that’s something New Yorkers probably care that much about, but still. He needs to blend in and he can’t blend in if he looks like he’s just crawled backwards out of a thorn bush.

“Water,” he mutters, staring fixedly at the building face. “Need water.”

He needs water. He needs food. He reaches up to massage his forehead and jerks back, hissing in pain. Black eye, dried blood crusting around it. Judging by the similar pain radiating from his mouth, a split lip too. He needs bandages too. .

He also has no way of getting any of these things. _Great._

He needs to go somewhere. Somewhere safe, somewhere where Sir won’t know where to look.

 _Stop hiding,_ Number Three hisses form somewhere deep inside him. Great. Glad that’s back. _You have to go back to him. He’s in charge of you._

“No, he’s not,” he hisses to the brick wall before abruptly clamping his jaw shut. He probably looks insane right now.

Insane and lost and confused and beaten up and _tired._

He didn’t used to get tired. Not like this.

_You didn’t used to be so weak._

“Fair point,” he mutters, kicking the brick a bit.

 _You held back,_ the part of him that’s still Number Three continues. _You could’ve killed him - you_ should’ve _killed him. Why did you hold back?_

He doesn’t know.

_Why did you hold back?_

“I don’t know, okay?”

_He’s your mission. He should’ve been dead long ago._

This isn’t right. He grits his teeth. _This isn’t right._

He did hold back. He had the upper and throughout the whole fight and yet he held back. _Peter_ held back.

But maybe he did too. He - whoever he is, whatever combination of left over personalities and hints of memories - had held back too. Because he might not know who Tony Stark really is or _why_ he knows he really does, but Tony Stark showed him nothing but mercy. He _shot_ the man. He beat him half to death. He gave him every single reason possible to kill him, to lock him in a real prison and let him rot there and he _didn’t._

Tony Stark didn’t. So he couldn’t kill the man. It wouldn’t be right.

_(And there’s still the ever-present something, the ever-present tug at his gut that tells him that something inside him loves and cares for Tony Stark; something inside him would do anything to keep that man safe)_

He hadn’t kept him safe, though. He had beaten the hell out of him.

He presses his face against the brick. It smells like clay and dust.

He had hurt Tony Stark. He had hurt Tony Stark. Why - why on _earth_ had he done that? What on _earth_ had he been thinking?

He - he doesn’t want to hurt him. He _knows_ he doesn’t want to hurt Tony Stark. Tony Stark kept him safe, kept him fed, showed him _compassion._ The man hadn’t beaten him, hadn’t locked him away in confinement, hadn’t talked down on him or so much as laid a finger on him, even when he himself had tried to split his face open with his bare hands. He doesn’t remember a lot, but that's a hell of a lot more than what Sir’s done for him.

And he hurt him all the same. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ \- what was he thinking? What was he _doing?_

“Hey, sweetie, are you okay?”

He flinches, whirling around. A woman has stopped a few feet behind him, concerned gaze shooting right through him, pinning him to the wall behind him.

_She sees you, she sees you’re nothing but a murderer and a danger and all you do is hurt and kill and -_

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” He nods furiously, rubbing his hands on his legs. The black eye and split lip is probably a little contradictory to that statement, but it’s not like he can really do anything about that.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he says, trying not to snap. She’s too close, her breathing is too loud - he _swears_ he can almost hear her heart pounding. “Yeah, I -”

He means to finish it with _I have to go_ but the words die on his lips. He just gives the woman - with all her strange motherly air and tangible concern - a final glance before stepping past her and hurrying down the sidewalk.

Food. Water. Bandages.

Food. Water. Bandages.

Food -

 _Not going to fight you. I love you._  

Water -

_It’s me. It’s your old man. It’s Tony_

Bandages -

 _Did you really - I mean_ really _\- think you could escape me? After_ all _you did to me? You really thought I was, what, gonna just_ rot _in prison for the rest of my life?_

He stops.

_Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe -_

Wait. _Wait._

He looks around him. He’s reached a residential block filled with nice-looking townhouses. There’s an overturned garbage can on the other end of the street. A bike is chained to the fence around the house nearest to him.

He knows that house. He knows that bike - there a streak of blue paint clashing with the red. He knows, he knows, he _knows._

Who - who - _how_ ? He presses his hands to his face. _How_ does he know? How does he who - _who’s_ house is it?

Remember. _Remember_.

_A face. Long dark hair. Polo shirts and striped long sleeves and decathlon and Star Wars and legos and endless nights eating pizza and ramen and watching Jim Carey movies and -_

Ned.

Ned Leeds.

His - _Peter’s_ friend. This is Ned Leeds’s house.

He stares up it. Second floor. That’s where Ned’s room is. He knows - _he knows._

He hops the fence without thinking. Jumped over the bushes and fixes himself to the brick wall. It’s easy, climbing. Done it a million times.

_Food. Water. Bandages._

_Safety._

He reaches the second floor before he has time to inhale again. He can see the shadowy figure if someone at the desk inside - Ned, it’s Ned, it’s Ned - and he presses a palm against the glass. He slides up slowly, quietly -

Then it creaks. Loudly.

The figure freezes. Turns around.

And then Ned’s mouth drops open.

“Please don’t scream.” Is the first thing he can get out. Ned just stares open-mouthed at him for a few more seconds before seemingly snapping out of his trace and going to throw the window open fully.

“Pe - _Peter_ \- oh my - holy -”

He forces back a flinch at the usage of Peter’s name and slides through the now-open window and onto the carpet. The room - Ned’s room - is familiar. He knows this room, remembers all the posters hanging up on the walls and the legos and spare clothes scattered across the floor, remembers what that yellow blazer hanging up on the desk chair is for, remembers the faint smell of jasmine that permeates the whole room that he knows comes from the downstairs kitchen.

No, he doesn’t. _He_ doesn’t know anything about anything anymore. Peter knows this; this is the remnants of Peter’s consciousness telling him what he should and shouldn’t recognize. _He_ doesn’t know anything about this room or the boy or why or how he got here.

And that makes him want to scream. Just like the memory of what he did to Tony Stark.

He shoves it down. No time. Sir is undoubtedly looking for him; he can’t waste time worrying about what he did. He has to get out of here, he has to run.

_(Even if a part of him never leaves; even if a part of him almost wants to die here, in New York, in the Tower, with Tony Stark)_

He waves a hand, cutting the boy off. “Please. Be quiet.”

Ned’s jaw clamps shut. Then, “Peter, what are you _doing_ here? What’s going on?”

He clenches his teeth. Peter is screaming at him to tell Ned everything, to break down and let his friend pick him back up like before. Like all the times before.

_(He can’t remember any of the befores but that’s not very surprising, is it?)_

“Okay,” he whispers, back pressed against the window sill. “I will explain. But I need food and water. And -” He gestures to his beat-up face. “- stuff for this.”

Maybe it’s just the lighting, but it looks like Ned has gone pale. God, no, _of course_ he has - he’s freaking out. Ned hasn’t seen him since - since before he disappeared. However long ago _that_ was.

He doesn’t know. _He doesn’t know._

“I am sorry,” he mutters hurriedly. Suddenly he can’t look Ned in the eyes. “I am sorry this is so - I don’t know. I - this is so -”

“Fucking insane?” Ned’s voice is shaking. His eyes are bright.

The Peter part of him twists. He nods, attempting a smile. “Yeah. Fucking insane.”

“You’re not dead, right? I - this isn’t a hallucination, right? Because my mom says sometimes if you’re grieving you can hallucinate or, like, fever dream and I just - I wanna make sure that’s not what’s going on here.”

“I’m real. It’s me,” he says, even though he doesn’t have the faintest clue who _me_ is supposed to be. Ned is looking at him and undeniably seeing Peter Parker - that makes sense, though; he has the guy’s _face_ after all - and he doesn’t know how to tell the boy - honestly doesn’t _want_ to tell the boy - that he doesn’t know the first thing about being Peter Parker anymore.

He doesn’t want to tell Ned that he’s pretty sure Peter Parker died somewhere long ago and all he’s living with the ghost of the kid haunting his head, pulling him in directions and stirring up memories that he doesn’t understand and can’t explain.

Meanwhile, Ned is nodding. “Okay. Okay. This is - okay. Wow. I’m - okay.”

“I will explain everything,” he says hurriedly. “Just -”

“Yeah, yeah, food. Water. I’ll grab that. You - you know where the med kit is - in the bathroom - you grab that.”

He nods because Ned is already leaving the room and what else is he supposed to do?

Bathroom, bathroom. There. Door on the wall next to the one Ned just left from. Bathroom.

It’s big. Too big. Mirrors line every surface, light glances off the tiles, shooting straight into his eyes.

He feels out of place. This isn’t his house, this isn’t his room, this isn’t his body, these memories aren’t his.

_You know where the med kit is._

There must be a million cabinets in here. He doesn’t remember Ned having such a big bathroom - or maybe he does, maybe he does - but what he does know is that he has no clue where the med kit is.

No clue at all.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know, doesn’t know, _does not know._

His face swims in the mirror. Peter’s face. Peter’s hands press up against Peter’s face, rub at Peter’s eyes, rub through Peter’s hair.

_I’m not going to fight you._

He didn’t wish Tony Stark had fought him.

He wished the man had killed him.

 _Look at you,_ Number Three snarls. _Just_ look _at yourself._

“Leave me alone,” he whispers. His reflection looks foreign. Alien. Not him.

He hurt Tony.

_Weak._

He was going to kill Tony Stark.

_Pathetic._

He was going to kill Tony Stark and he can’t even remember why. Just like how he ant remember where the stupid med kit is, just like everything.

_What kind of weapon are you?_

He was going to kill Tony Stark and now he’s going to get Ned killed because Sir is coming, Siri’s coming and that thought makes him so terrified he can’t breathe right and he doesn’t even know _why._

His back hits the tiled wall. He can’t breathe.

Ned knocks at the door. “Peter?”

_What is he doing?_

The door cracks open. He can feel Ned’s worry flooding through the opening. “Peter?”

He doesn’t move. The floor is cold and hard and is probably the only thing that’s keeping him tied down to reality now. “I don’t know where the stuff is.”

“You -”

“I can’t remember!” he snaps. “I can’t remember anything.”

The silence is heavy. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. _Remember, remember_ , he can’t remember _anything_. He can’t remember who he is or who Ned is or who Tony Stark is or any other goddamn thing about the life the body he’s living in used to have.

And it’s hurting people. It’s hurting Ned - whose face he can just sense is twisting above him. It’s hurting Tony. He’s hurting Tony.

He’s dangerous. The realization hits like a ton of bricks and he curls up more, squeezing his elbows into the space between his legs and chest.

 _Good,_ Number Three hisses. _That’s your point. You’re a_ weapon. _What good are weapons if they’re -_

“I can’t remember anything,” he says loudly, cutting off the voice in his head. “It’s all - I don’t know. It’s like - I know that I’m Peter Parker. I know - I have his body. His - face.”

“His?” Ned echoes. His voice sounds shaky.

He curls up harder. _Weak. So fucking weak._ “Yeah - yeah. I - I know I’m all that. But it’s - it’s not me.”

Ned shifts. Slides down the wall so he’s sitting across from him. He tries not to flinch away as the boy slowly extends his feet so that they’re sitting over his own. He almost does it - _almost_.

“It’s like - it’s like I’m just living in his body, you know? And I have these - _moments_ , these flashes of his memories. Like - like the room. Your room - I recognize your room. Or - or Black Widow, I remember things about her. I remember she doesn’t like jelly so she eats all her sandwiches with peanut butter and honey. I remember - Tony Stark. He - there’s things. I don’t - know, exactly. But I know him. But everything else - I can’t - I don’t know. I just - can’t remember. And I know I should - like, like the bathroom? I should know where you keep your stuff because I _know_ we’ve done this, I _know where this stuff is_ \- but I don't. At the same time I don’t.”

“You’re living in another person’s head.” Ned’s voice is flat. Peter was his best friend - best friend in the whole world. For how long, he doesn’t know, but it was a long time. He - _they -_ have a lifetime of memories together that he’ll never understand and he’s starting to think Ned’s understanding that and this isn’t fair.

“I don’t -” He shakes his head. “I - guess. It’s not permanent.”

“Isn’t it?” Ned blinks and tears roll down his face.

He grits his teeth. His chest is aching. “I - yeah. I - the longer I go without him - Sir - the more it comes back. He was - doing something. I don’t remember what but - there’s something. He did something. If - if I don’t get it again, I think it might all come back. Eventually.”

“Do you want it to?”

Ned’s really throwing curveballs now. He presses his nails into his thigh and chews the side of his cheek. “I - don’t know. Should I?”

He should be running. He shouldn’t be here, sitting on the floor of Ned’s bathroom asking questions he doesn’t think he wants the answer to. He’s putting himself in danger by staying in the same place - he’s putting _Ned_ in even _more_ danger. And yet he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t want to move.

Ned sighs a little. His feet press down atop of his own. Once he gets over the initial shock of someone touching him who isn’t actually trying to hurt him, it’s nice. Comforting.  

“You - Peter - he has - he’s _had_ \- look, it hasn’t been easy. For him, for you - even if you don’t - don’t remember it. You’ve been through a lot. A - _lot_ , like, like - your parents died. Your uncle died. You got a building dropped on you. Nearly got killed in a plane crash. You - Pete, there’s stuff I don’t even _know_ that you’ve been through. I - I care a lot about you. I don’t know if I want - want you to relive that again. You know? And - and it’s not like I can - _do_ anything about that, or, like, stop you from remembering and I _want_ you too, it’s just -”

“Complicated.”

Ned nods. “Yeah.”

“But I - _want to_ ? I don’t - this isn’t - I’m not okay. Not like this. I need to - to know. I need to know, I need to remember. I _want_ to remember. Even the bad stuff.”

“I want you to remember, too.”

There's a lot of emotion behind Ned’s voice. It makes him feel heavy and tired. He swallows. He hasn’t talked this much in - well, forever. As long as he can remember. “How - what - what happened? To me?”

A sigh echoes around the bathroom. “You disappeared on patrol - Spider-man stuff - one day around Christmas, I think? Just after? We - no one could find you. Everyone from the police to Mr. Stark to SHIELD got involved and they just couldn’t find you. No trace. You - god, it was like, a week before -” Ned swallows heavily. “There was a video sent to Mr. Stark. A - a livestream thing. It - you were in this bunker place and - they killed you. Some guys, dunno who. They shot you. You died. Mr. Stark still had a vitals reader on you and they cut out. You died.”

He shivers. “But I’m here,” he mutters. “I didn’t -”

“Yeah. We - we thought you did, though. It - it had been six months and then Mr. Stark finally agreed to have your funeral and then the day of - it was finals for us - me and MJ - and she was, like, in the hallway or something when she saw you. By some lockers. You - you planted a bomb.”

The shiver turns into a deep chill shooting through his bones. “Midtown.”

“You remember it?”

Shrugs. “Enough.” The pieces of a memory he has make him sick enough without even having the full picture. He’s not sure if he even wants that.

Ned’s face twists in an expression he doesn’t recognize. “I - yeah. Yeah, so we, uh, went to the funeral and - and told Mr. Stark and he was looking for you and then I guess you showed up at the Tower, or whatever, and then they got you and then - now -”

“I’m here.”

Another pause. “Why? Not that I’m - I’m _really_ happy to see you, like, beyond expressing it, but - Mr. Stark. He said he was keeping you safe, is he - was he not?”

He presses his fingers into his eyes. Everything feels foggy looking back, like he’s watching the events through a smokescreen. Like it wasn’t him controlling it - which it wasn’t.

“Number Three,” he mutters, rubbing his face. “He - took over? I don’t - I don’t know why - can’t remember - but I kind of - started fighting him.”

“You _fought_ Tony Stark?”

He grimaces. “Yeah. He - he was holding back. Didn’t want o fight me - I - I don’t want to - but then the door got opened, or something and I - I just panicked. I ran. And I - I was standing around and I think I looked kind of scary standing around and I just - I remembered I was near you and I just - I didn’t know what else to do. I just -”

He’s rambling, his voice taking on a shaky quality that feels weird and unnatural for him and stupidly _weak._ Ned presses his feet down again. He breathes. Ned is safe. _He’s_ safe

_(For how long?)_

“Hey, hey, man. It’s okay. I’m - _really_ glad you came here. Seriously. You look like _death_ , dude, you - are you _sure_ Mr. Stark gave you, like, food? You look _malnourished.”_

He smirks just a tiny bit. “Yeah, I - he taught me not to - to take things from captors. Food. I made a point - I was being - stubborn.”

Ned’s smile slips just a fraction before resuming its full vigor. “Okay, well, I’m not your _captor_ , so. I brought chicken. And rice. My - my mom made it; you like it - _used to_ really like it, at least. It’s - it’s good.”

The boy waves a hand at the bag visible outside of the room. He blinks. It smells _good_ and his stomach cramps and, god, he hasn’t eaten in entirely too long.

“Okay,” he says softly. Smiles, mostly because it makes Ned smile too and there’s something about that that feels very right. “I can eat.”

“Good, because my mom has like seven billion tons of leftovers and she always gets stressy when we don’t finish them so I’m really counting on you to help me out over here, man.”

He snorts. Ned gives him a long look. “You okay?”

He shrugs. He’s not entirely sure. Better than he has been in a while. Better than he will be soon.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I - yeah. Don’t know.”

“That’s okay. Food, sleep - then you’ll feel great. I promise.”

And that’s enough for now, so they uncurl themselves from the floor and slowly stand up. Ned doles out the food, charting aimlessly about his mother and rice and leftovers and he listens the whole time, studiously pretending he doesn’t notice when the guy gives him a portion size that’s almost triple his own.

They lapse into silence, Ned staring half at him, half somewhere around his knee. He just devours half the bowl in ten minutes flat. God, he’s hungry. He’s not going to eat like this again in a while.

Sir will make sure of that.

Sure, he hadn’t been living in luxury since he came to the Tower. But he’d - people were _nice._ As nice as they could be to a literal mass murderer and serial bomber. No one kicked him around, slammed his face into walls for not doing the right thing at the right time. No one touched him, no one bothered him, no one made him do things he didn’t want to do.

No one made him hurt people.

 _(_ That _was all him)_

But it’s short lived. A temporary reality. He can’t hide forever.

“He’s going to come,” he mutters into the bowl. “I can’t - I can’t stay here. If I do - he’s going to hurt you. You know that, right?”

Ned pauses with a forkful of rice halfway to his mouth. He frowns a little, setting it back down. “I know,” he says simply. “We’ll work it out, okay?”

“We can’t just - _work this out,_ Ned,” he says, shaking his head. “He - Sir -”

“Sir? _That’s_ \- that’s what you call Toomes? Sir?”

 _Toomes? Who the fuck is Toomes?_ “He - I - I don’t know his name - he never told me - he just said to call him _sir_ and I just - I don’t know.”

Ned’s frown deepens. He looks almost - _angry._ “That - _dickhead._ God. I hope Mr. Stark hangs him up to dry, seriously, man. He deserves it, and then some.”

He half-debates asking why Sir - _Toomes_ \- has done prior to the whole kidnapping thing, but pushes that aside. It’s not that he doesn’t want to know - though he doesn’t, really - but he’s tired enough as it is and he doesn’t need a slew of half-erased memories popping up in the form of nightmares all through the night. Plus, it’ll probably scare Ned, which he doesn’t want.

So he just sticks with a noncommittal grunt and a half-suppressed yawn. Ned gives him another look.

“You need to sleep.”

“Not tired.”

“You yawned.”

“I don’t get tired.”

“Man, that is so dumb; I _know_ all of your weird spider powers and not getting tired isn’t one of them.”

“I have spider powers? You should tell me all about them in extreme detail immediately.”

_“Dude.”_

“Come on. It’ll be fun. Can I lay eggs?”

“Why don’t you wanna sleep?”

The question hits him like a slap in the face. He chews on his lip for a moment. “Nightmares,” he finally says. “Plus if I’m sleeping I can’t - if he comes -”

“He won’t come. My mom will, like, beat him to death with a rolling pin if he tries to come in.”

He snorts. “Fine. I - where -”

Ned jerks a hand at the bed pushed up against the wall. “Take mine - no, stop arguing. Just - do it. Please.”

He frowns. Then relents. “Okay.”

Ned’s bed is soft and comfortable and has an inordinate number of pillows. His eyes start closing the second his head hits the backboard.

He sighs. He’s safe. He’s fine.

_He’s coming._

“Night, Peter.”

_He’ll kill Ned. He’ll kill Ned and Tony Stark and everyone and then he’ll kill you._

“Goodnight, Ned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi....here is Some peter ned interaction we all deserve....ok tis all hope u guys like it<3


	23. coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring anyone else here, Ned.”

“Relax, she’s safe - trust me!”

“She’ll be in danger -”

“Are you kidding? Toomes is the one who’ll be in danger if he shows up here when she’s with us.”

It’s been going on like this for about twenty minutes now - he thinks - time passing is still weird to wrap his head around, especially now that he’s not in an underground cell with no way of telling if it’s day or night. Ned has been trying to convince him that everything is, generally speaking, fine and  _ he’s  _ been trying to convince Ned that things are actually very  _ not  _ fine and under  _ no circumstances  _ should the guy involve any more people in this situation than absolutely necessary - which means absolutely  _ no one _ else should be involved in the situation - because Sir -  _ Toomes,  _ apparently - will kill them without blinking. 

Ned did, helpfully enough, not listen. Within five minutes of them being awake, the guy had opened his phone and invited one of his - and Peter’s - friends over. 

Michelle Jones. Known to her friends as MJ, so he’s not sure where that leaves him, really. Apparently she’s the girl he vaguely remembers seeing in the hallway at Midtown during the bombing. He’s pretty sure this is one of the worst ideas Ned could’ve have. One, aside from the persistent  _ something,  _ their meeting at the school, and a few vague scraps of half-remembered memories, he has  _ no clue  _ who Michelle Jones. He knows he  _ should _ , but he doesn’t, and that loop is starting to grate on his nerves a little. 

“Dude,” Ned says empathetically for what feels like the billionth time the morning. He’s sitting cross legged on his bed, staring up at Peter. “Relax. MJ’s cool. I trust her - so do you, even if you don’t remember right now. Plus she, like, always knows what to do. It’s scary.”

“Why would you invite her over if she’s  _ scary?”  _ he hisses from his place leaning up against the desk. There’s a weird buzzing feeling coursing through him and he doesn’t like it. It makes his hands shake a little as he closes them into fists. 

“She’s not scary,” Ned insists, then makes a face. “Well, okay, she  _ is -” _

_ “Ned.” _

“- but, like, a good type of scary. Not scary for us, scary for everyone she’s mad at. And she’s really,  _ really _ mad at Toomes. Like, ready to kill him mad. She’s a real mother when it comes to you, honestly.”

“What’s a mother hen?”

“It’s like a - okay, not the point - don’t tell her I said that; she’ll get mad. Point is, we’re  _ fine.  _ She’s safe. Also, we’re really gonna have to catch you up on expressions when this is all over.”

Something inside him catches a little at that, despite Ned’s breezy, lighthearted tone.  _ When this is all over.  _ “Do - you think it will be over?”

Stupid question. He’s being stupid again. 

But Ned just makes a thoughtful - maybe? He’s still not good at the whole interpreting-people’s-expressions thing yet - face and hums a little. “Of course, dude,” he says after a pause. “You’ve got Tony Stark  _ and _ Michelle Jones on your side now. I’m pretty sure the universe is, like, too scared of them to deny them anything they want.”

“They want me?”

“They want you to be safe. And happy. And, ideally, like, not brainwashed. But mostly the safe and happy thing.”

He nods. It’s a weird thing to wrap his head around, that the people from Peter’s past still care about  _ him _ , even if he’s the most wildly distorted and worse off version of Peter he could possibly be. 

It’s nice, he realizes. Weird, but a nice kind of weird. 

As if on cue, almost, a knocking sounds around the room. To his credit, he only flinches a little as Ned gives him an  _ it’s okay  _ look - or at least he  _ thinks  _ that’s what it says - and stands up to open his bedroom door.  

It’s Michelle Jones. Not Sir, they’re not in danger of being murdered, but the tension doesn’t flood out of his body like he hoped it would. Not only does the girl cut an intimidating figure, crossing her arms and looking at Ned with a comfortably murderous expression, like it’s he one her face is accustomed to, but the wave of  _ something  _ hits him so hard he almost falls of his position on the desk. 

He knows her. Or, he doesn’t at all, but he should. 

He should and he doesn’t and he hates it. He hates the empty,  _ aching _ space in his head and chest where he knows the memories are supposed to reside. He hates how everything is five steps out of reach at all times, no matter how hard he runs to it. He hates that, just by being here, he’s painting a target right on Ned’s back - and now Michelle Jones’s, too. 

He should leave. He  _ has  _ to leave. 

But he doesn’t - weak,  _ coward.  _ Instead he just sits there on the corner of the desk, squeezing the wood hard enough to crack it in half if he moves his hands. 

_ Breathe. Breathe. Stay in control.  _

Number Three is always waiting at the edges, waiting for him to slip up or panic or have a meltdown so he can step in and take the reigns. That cannot happen now. It cannot happen again. 

“What, you’ll literally break into my house but still knock?” Ned says in a long-suffering voice, interrupting his thoughts - happily enough. The guy steps back from the door and returns to his position on the bed. Behind him, in walks Michelle Jones, hair just as curly and eyes just as piercing as he rememberers from Midtown. She gives him a look that goes straight through him for all of three seconds, expression totally unreadable, before blinking once and turning back to Ned. She dangles a set of keys out in front of her. 

“I did not  _ break in _ , Leeds,” she says, sounding equally long-suffering. “You have me these keys, as far as I can remember.”

“Big mistake on my part,” Ned says. The guy smiling, though, and even  _ he _ can’t miss the warmth radiating off of him. Ned trusts her and, though he’s not entirely sure if  _ he’s _ able to trust people anymore, Ned has not hurt him. Ned has taken care of him, Ned has been nice to him. He feels the closest thing he can associate with trust for Ned - and the backlog of memories he knows he has somewhere regarding the guy only help - so if Ned likes Michelle Jones, then he does too. 

“So,” she says in a business-like tone, tossing her bag aside. Her gaze finds its way back to him and he has to fight to not shrink away from it. “The prodigal son returns.”

“The - what?”

Is  _ he  _ a prodigal son? Ned said his parents were dead. Also, what the fuck does  _ prodigal _ mean?

She blinks at him again and waves hand. “Whatever. Glad you’re alive, loser.”

There’s a wash of something hiding in her voice. He’s not sure what it means, but it feels nice to hear. He nods, picking at the paint on the desk. 

“Yeah,” he mutters. Then, “I - I’m sorry about - Midtown, I - you could’ve been -  _ killed _ by me, and I -”

“No one’s holding you responsible for that,” she says easily. He can’t miss the almost-healed cuts on her cheekbone, though. It makes his body feel heavy and hollow. “It wasn’t you.”

“Yes, it was,” he says because  _ that’s  _ just a statement of fact. He killed people.  _ He  _ killed dozens of people - dozens of teenagers,  _ kids.  _

“Yeah, okay, in the physical sense, sure. You planted the bomb, your hand was on the - the metaphorical trigger, or whatever - but it’s pretty clear that you’re not in full control of yourself right now. Which isn’t your fault  _ at all -” _ She gives him a glare so sharp it feels like it cuts him right in half. “-  it’s because Toomes is a fucking lunatic and thinks it’s like, cool, or whatever, to emotionally and mentally manipulate children and make them kill a bunch of people. At the end of the day, it’ll fall on him.”

There’s a pause. He can feel Ned looking from him to Michelle Jones, gaza now unreadable. 

“He’s going to kill me,” he says after a pause. They deserve to know the truth. “He - yeah. He’s going to kill me, or he’s going to make - make me kill more people. Either way, I...”

_ I shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be helping me. I am a danger and not fully in control of myself and have pissed off a man who won’t break a sweat killing you and anyone else he feels like to punish me.  _

You know, subtext. 

Michelle Jones gives him another look. “How will he make you kill people?” She sounds genuinely curious, voice light and soft, all of a sudden. 

He shrugs a little, dragging a nail along the groove of the wood beneath his hands. “He - Number Three. He can -  _ control  _ me, I guess, using -  _ turning  _ me into Number Three. It’s - it’s  _ me _ , but when I’m like that, I just follow his orders. No thinking. I - the Midtown bombing, that was him. Well, it  _ was _ me, but - it was him controlling it.”

“So, what? He’s either going to make you go all Number Three on whoever or kill you, yeah?” Ned asks, staring between the two of them.

He nods. He can feel worry radiating off Ned in waves and a weird sort of tension coming from Michelle Jones as she chews her lip for a second. 

“Okay,” Michelle says, drumming her fingers on the desk. “Okay - the whole him killing you thing is - it’ll be hard. You were hard enough to get rid of before you got all supersoldier-ified - he tried, like, three times. You - do you remember what happened to you with that - spider bite thingy?”

“Michelle, I don’t even remember my birthday.”

“Call me MJ.”

“Ned said only your friends call you -”

“You’re my friend, dumbass,” she says with no anger in her tone. Just something soft and warm. “So call me MJ. And anyways, your major problem is when you become Number Three.  _ That’s _ what Toomes has programed into you,  _ that’s _ what he understands about you so  _ that’s _ what he’s going to use to get what he wants. And if that’s the only hold he really has over you, then that’s the only thing you need to control.”

She says it like it’s really that simple, like he really has a handle on any aspect of himself right now. He huffs a breath ou, feeling the wind move his hair off his forehead. God, he needs a haircut. He needs a haircut and a nap and several more helpings of Ned’s mother’s food and a six and a half year long nap. “It’s not that simple. I - I can’t jush - I don’t know - control it all of a sudden.”

“But you can rationalize it. What - what drives him? Number Three?”

He frowns. “He - his missions. He’s very - goal-oriented. Wants to complete everything to perfection.”

“I’m assuming he operates on, like, logic and facts, not emotions, right?” MJ’s fingers tap a tattoo on the table as she stares at him. He nods and she gives a smile of satisfaction. “Good. Okay, so, goal-oriented, logical, perfectionist. The traits are all there. You just gotta find something to appeal to them.”

“W - what?”

Ned snaps his fingers. “Like a new goal, she means. A new mission. Number Three can’t understand emotions like you can, but he can understand logic. He can understand what makes sense and what doesn’t. If - you said Mr. Stark was really nice to you, right? Even when you were,like, beating the shit out of him, or whatever, right?”

He nods.  _ Right. _

Ned grins. “Okay, so think of it as, like, a debt. Number Three  _ owes _ Tony Stark for not killing him. Like an eye for an eye type thing except, you know, the opposite because he hasn’t taken your eye ‘cause that’s the  _ point.” _

“An eye for an eye,” he echoes. Then frowns again. “I - I just don’t know if it will work. “He - it’s about missions, you know? And they have to come from Sir - from Toomes.”

“What if the mission was about Toomes?” Ned’s voice is bright with an undercurrent of something he doesn’t recognize but feels very familiar -  _ what doesn’t, really? _ “Like - okay, maybe he doesn’t understand an eye for an eye type stuff, whatever. But if he were to figure out that Toomes is, like, a piece of shit and he’s hurting you and all that, maybe he’d see it as, like, a self preservation thing to fight back.”

He frowns. “It’s not transferable, though. My memories. My feelings. Number Three doesn’t care what I know now. He won’t listen.”

“But what if we tell  _ him?” _

He blinks. Then blinks again. 

Ned cannot seriously be suggesting  _ that _ . No way. He’s lost his fucking mind if he thinks doing  _ that  _ will end up in any that is remotely pleasant and bloodless. 

“No,” he says, standing up off the desk and starting to pace a tight circle around the center of the room. He can feel Ned and MJ’s stares following him and it’s making his skin crawl, all of a sudden. “No, that’s - that’s a horrible idea. No.”

“It would work,” says MJ suddenly. 

Resisting the urge to slam his own head into the wall repeatedly, he just turns to face her, nails digging into his palms. 

“You - you do remember what happened the last time he took over, right? I nearly killed Tony Stark.”

“You -”

He cuts her off easily because maybe she’s just not hearing him, maybe she and Ned just still don’t understand that he is  _ dangerous _ , dangerous enough as he is now, in control of himself, and bringing Number Three out to play will only end in a couple of dead teenagers on the floor and another two tally marks on the horrifically long lost of people that have died at his hands. “ _ I nearly killed Tony Stark,”  _ he repeats. “I can’t - I can’t put you guys at risk like that, I  _ won’t -  _ I’ve - I’ve done enough. I’ve killed enough already. I’m not letting you two be next.”

“You said it yourself,” MJ retorts and she sounds angry now and it makes  _ him _ feel angry, too, but in a way he doesn’t recognize. Angry in a way that makes him want to wrap the two of them up and put them somewhere safe and lock the door on them until all of this is finished. “He gets you, he kills you.”

“That won’t be stopped any more if  _ you  _ two are  _ dead -” _

“You need a way to protect yourself,” Ned says earnestly, leaning forward from his position on the bed. “MJ’s right - if you’re just  _ you,  _ like how you are now, Toomes doesn’t have anything on you. You can take him down with one hand tied behind you back. The only reason he’d win is if Number Three is still under his control, Peter, you -”

“I’m not Peter!” he snaps, gesturing violently like he can strike that notion down with just his hands. “I - I’m not Peter anymore, okay? He’s  _ dead _ . He  _ died  _ and I don’t know how - can’t remember how - but he died and  _ I -”  _ He turns his waving hands on himself and, god, he wishes he could strike  _ himself _ down even more. “- am not Peter and I’m not the guy you’re friends with or who you - I don’t know,  _ care about.  _ And Peter seems like a good person and, yeah, sure, maybe he’s worth doing all this for and endangering yourselves for but  _ I’m not Peter  _ so _ I’m not worth it.” _

The room falls silent. He pants. His chest is heavy with emotion. 

“I’ve killed a lot of people,” he says and his voice comes out shakier than he intended it to. He coughs it away. “I - a lot. Some of them I don’t remember yet, but I  _ know  _ I did it. Midtown -  _ thirty six _ people died, last I heard of. Kids. Thirty six. I - I don’t want - I don’t want anymore, okay? I don’t want anyone else to - die - because of me. I don’t - yeah.”

Guilt used to be an emotion he knew only by name, not bunexperience. But now, standing in the middle of a guy who he can really remember’s bedroom with said guy and his friend openly declaring their willingness to put themselves in a very dangerous position all so  _ he  _ can the the one to walk away from this despite the fact that he again is the reason so many other people won’t be walking ever again, he’s pretty sure the heavy, crushing feeling in his chest like someone’s squeezing his ribs together is what guilt feels like. 

“You have a form of retrograde amnesia,” MJ says in a businesslike tone like he didn’t just scream at her for two minutes straight. “It’s when parts of your brain are damaged during an injury taking place - the injurybhere being whatever the fuck Toomes did to make your forget everything. Your case is obviously way more complicated than whatever WebMD told me, but people who get retrograde amnesia  _ can  _ regain their memories. Peter isn’t dead. He’s just - hiding, or something. However you want to look at it. Point is - Peter’s alive. Might not feel like it right now but he’s still inside of you. And he’s good - really, really fucking good - and totally worth doing all this for so, by default, you are too. Not that complicated, really.”

He swallows. Steps away from the desk and moves across the room a little. She’s wrong, they’re both wrong. He’s not Peter. He can never be what Peter was. He’s not worth this. 

“I’m going,” he says forcefully. He has no bag to pick up, nothing to take with him, so he just moves to the door. 

“Going  _ where,  _ idiot?” MJ snaps, taking a step in his direction. 

He forces himself not to flinch, forces himself to meet her gaze. It’s cold and angry as there’s something burning underneath it that he doesn’t understand, really, but feels supremely undeserving of.  

Same look in Tony Stark’s eyes in the holding cell. Same look in Ned’s eyes in the bathroom last night. 

“Away. To find Toomes.”

“You’re gonna die,  _ fuckass _ ,” she almost spits out. Her eyes are bright, too bright, and it’s making his chest twist into a tiny ball. “You think we’re gonna let you just run off and get yourself killed?”

“I -”

“You were dead for six months,” Ned says in a tight voice. He, unlike MJ, hasn’t moved and doesn’t seem to have an intention of doing so. Maybe the guy knows he can’t stop him. “You were dead for six months and it was the worst six months of my life, man. My best friend  _ died.  _ And then you didn’t. And then you showed up at school and you were back and Mr. Stark has you and you were  _ alive  _ and, honestly, I didn’t even care that you couldn’t remember things, I didn’t even care that Mr. Stark said you couldn’t remember who I was or who Peter Parker was or the act than you thought Spider-man died, like, years ago, or whatever, because you were my best friend and you were  _ alive.  _ And - dude, I can’t lose that again. I can’t lose you again. I - please. Please don’t go.”

“He’s going to kill you.” Is his stupidly ineloquent response to that because words are still not his strong suit and he’s talked more in the past twelve hours than he has in the past six months and it’s exhausting - he’s exhausted and he just wants all of this to stop -  _ now.  _ He wants to be Peter again. He wants the bright look in MJ’s eyes and the sad, scared look on Ned’s face to disappear. He wants Tony Stark to be okay. He wants  _ himself  _ to be okay. 

He wants to remember. He just wants to remember everything. 

And then, before he can speak, before he can even open his mouth, it happens. 

An awful, nauseating feeling settles over him like a blanket and his throat constricts and  _ something is going to happen, something very bad is going to happen  _ right  _ fucking now.  _

“Hey, hey, loser.” MJ crouches down beside him. Holds her hands up in a non-threatening gesture -  _ something’s coming, something’s coming, something’s coming -  _ “You good? What is it?”

He shakes his head. The back of his neck is burning with the bad feeling. It  _ \- something  _ \- is about to happen; he can  _ feel it.  _

“Something,” he forces out. “Something’s coming.”

The inexplicable feeling of terror in his head that  _ something is about to happen _ and the quieter, darker voice that he knows and hates whispering  _ let it _ is pinning him down, keeping his back pressed flat against the wall and his throat tight and his hands shaking. 

_ Do you think your silence will save them? Do you really think I won’t kill your family just ‘cause you keep your trap shut? _

Sir’s voice. Sir -  _ Sir.  _

_ You’re a brave kid, Peter, I’ll give you that. A fucking moron, but brave.  _

“Sir -” he hisses our. His throat feels like it’s lined with glass and MJ looks like she flinches back - maybe, he can’t tell; he can’t tell or feel anything except for the fact that Sir is  _ here.  _

_ I’ll kill them all, Peter. You run and I’ll kill them all.  _

“Run,” he breathes. Louder, louder, he's being too quiet, they can’t hear -  _ he’s coming, he’s coming, you can’t stop it now.  _ “Run!”

And then the window behind them, the window he crawled in through not twelve hours ago shatters. 

The noise is deafening. He jerks back, hand grabbing onto MJ, trying to somehow pull her being him and he’s acting on instinct, barely even thinking because every part of his brain is being flattened into oblivion by pure, undulating terror. 

_ He’s here, he’s here, you’ve brought him here and you’ve killed them all.  _

“Pe -” Ned starts to say, eyes wide with the same fear that’s pounding through his own body now but then he stops. Cuts off. 

The guy’s eyes widen even more, lock with his, and then he collapses. 

“No,” he hisses, trying to pull himself to his feet. His body won’t respond, his lungs won’t wrk, his head is pounding and his hands are shaking and  _ he’s here, he’s here, Sir is fucking here.  _ “No, no, no, no -”

A head drops against his knees suddenly, weight like a breezeblock. Curly hair. MJ. She’s collapsed, just like Ned. 

He reaches a shaking hand out to her. Pushes her shoulder. 

“MJ?” 

His voice is shaking. She doesn’t move. 

He doesn’t have time to panic, doesn’t have time to so much as stand up because, the second his hand retracts from MJ’s shoulder, the bedroom door bangs open, noise ripping the eery quiet following the broken glass apart. 

And there he is. 

Toomes. 

_ Sir _ . 

His boots are heavy and compact. There’s a gun on his waist, several more hidden around his body, undoubtedly. His hair gray and slicked back and his eyes are just as cold as he remembers and the man’s face twists into a sickening,  _ terrifying _ smile as he catches sight of him laying on the floor. 

“Hi,  _ Peter,”  _ Toomes says, spitting out the name. 

_ It’s over. He’s here. It’s over.  _

And then there’s the faintest sound of something who’s telling right towards him. He feels it strike somewhere near his head - neck, maybe; everything is hazy and unclear with fear. 

_ They’re dead. They’re dead and it’s over and he’s got you now.  _

For once, the voice he associates with Number Three isn’t angry, isn’t malicious, isn’t viciously triumphant, isn’t anything. Just stating the facts. 

He swallows once. 

_ I’m sorry.  _

Then he blacks out. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH....will i ever stop ending chapters on cliff hangers...no. Also SO MANY CHAPTERS in this fic have ended w people passing out what is wrong w me.....hope u enjoy this one we’re drawing closer to the Tony Finally Gets To Kick Toomes’s Ass (Or Does He) bit ...get hyped


	24. location

“Tony -  _ Tony -” _

“You  _ Tony _ me one more time and you’re going to give me a fucking stress ulcer, you know that, right?”

“Put - don’t you  _ dare  _ take that goddamn IV out -  _ Tony!” _

“Oops. My hand slipped.”

“Can you just  _ think -” _

Tony  _ has _ been thinking. An extraordinary amount. The hours started to blend together a little bit towards the end, but he had gotten a solid few ones of consciousness - albeit pain-riddled - to sit and lay there and fucking  _ think _ . 

He had been unable to move after the fight. Barely able to see or blink or breathe. 

He had passed out for a grand total of five minutes, maybe, waking up to the sound of scraping and yelling and heavy footsteps. Someone had moved him - where, how,  _ who _ , he had no idea - and his thoughts had started solidifying by the time he had reached the med bay. 

As there he had laid for god knows how long. Not sleeping. Not talking. Not so much as moving a fraction of an inch - he  _ couldn’t _ . Just thinking. 

Thinking about how the whole fight, this whole mess, reminds him sickeningly of a bunker buried in the snow, of a VHS tape, of a TV playing the most earth-shattering secret out loud for everyone to hear, of metal and flesh hands pounding into him relentlessly, of a hard yet  _ desperate  _ voice rasping out “he’s my friend,” of blood and ice and bone-freezing coldness and a shield sticking out of his chest like a dagger. 

Siberia. It reminds him of Siberia. 

He had loved Steve deeply. Unreservedly. Like a best friend, like a soulmate, like  _ whatever.  _ Steve had known that, too - had reciprocated it, at least to the best of Tony’s knowledge. And Steve had tossed that all away, disregarded his warnings and attempts to help in the face of one man from his past. He had left Tony to die without so much as a look back. 

_ (And of course he’s being unfair, of course he’s not giving Bucky and Steve’s relationship with him the justice it deserves when he talks about it like that, of course he’s conveniently blipping over the bit in which he fought both Steve and Bucky willingly, of  _ course _ he still loves Steve. But - still) _

And there he is again, two, three years after the fact, feeling exactly the same as he did laying on that bunker floor. 

Hurt. Scared. Angry. Betrayed. 

Tony had trusted Steve with his life. And Steve has taken it in his hands and beaten him within an inch of it and left him to die. 

_ (And really, how different is that to what happened in the holding cell?) _

And he’s thinking - that horrible, selfish part of him is thinking - how much longer he’s willing to fight to get Peter back. How many more near-death experiences can he survive - birth mentally and physically - at the kid’s hands before he cracks. How much longer he can do this before the aching tiredness that settled into the center of his chest the day Peter disappeared finally wins out and tells him to stop.

Probably forever and then some, but the still-selfish part of him likes the idea of getting a break. The still-selfish part of him likes the idea of finding someone and loving them and  _ trusting them  _ and not having that blow up in his face in a mix of ice and blood and white-washed walls and a jagged, haunted voice hissing “fight me” over and over again in his head. 

So, yeah. A lot of thinking, and it’s honestly not making Tony feel great. More to the point, it’s wasting time. 

So he finally sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the hospital gurney - god, he’s really developed a strong dislike for waking up in these things over the past few weeks - and hops onto the ground.

Then he rips the IV out.

That’s when Pepper really gets annoyed.

Because she’s here - of course she is; for every step he takes back from her, trying to put healthy distance between her and whatever self-orchestrated catastrophe is going on in his life now, she takes two, normally fixing him with a look filled with steely resolve.

Her gaze is filled with a little bit of steely resolve now, too. Mostly just exasperation.

“Put that back in,” she says through gritted teeth, folding her arms and glaring down at him. She’s in the same position as Rhodey was however many days ago it was when he woke up from the shot and she's starting to look decidedly murderous. If Tony at all cared about what happened to him at this point, he probably would’ve been very afraid.

“That’s not how IVs work, Pep,” he informs her, leaning up against the side of the bed. He hasn’t gotten a report of exactly what the kid did to him in the cell, but, judging by the borderline  _ excruciating  _ pain that reverberates around his body every time he tries to move, it was bad.

He decidedly doesn’t want to know. He can’t think about that right now. He has an agenda, a list of things he needs to do. One, get the kid back and  _ keep him there.  _ Two, flay Toomes within an inch of his life. Three, help the kid return to normal again. Four, apologize profusely to every single person he’s interacted with in the last six months. Five, apologize again. And six, finally, go somewhere very quiet for a week and have several drinks and sleep for three days straight. And the list doesn’t leave room for thinks like thinking about the cell and the feeling of tile underneath his head and blood in his mouth and the total look of hatred in Peter’s eyes as he slammed his fists into him again and again and again -

“Tony.”

He blinks, Pepper’s voice snapping him out of his thoughts. The walls of the holding cell that had started to form around his dissolving into the air around him and he exhales. He’s here. He’s safe.

Well, okay. Safe is a stretch. But he’s not having the living shit beaten out of him anymore, so that has to count for something.

Pepper’s still looking at him, gaze a little more concerned now that in was five seconds ago. He can see her hands clenching and unclenching around the clipboard she’s carrying in her arms - nervous habit; born out 

“I’m fine.”

“You can’t stand up.” Her voice is flooded with incredulity and, honestly, she’s not wrong. “You can’t  _ walk _ .”

He just shrugs, though. “The suit can do that for me.”

“Jesus, Tony, you to need rest -”

“I need,” he announces, cutting her off. God, his face hurts. “My suit. Can we make that happen?”

“Over my dead body. Get back in bed.”

“I’ve been in bed for the past - god, how long has it been?”

“Not enough time. Get back in bed.  _ Now _ .”

He tries vainly to shove the frustration bubbling up in his throat down - he knows with all his heart that Pepper’s coming from a good place, the best place, but she  _ just doesn’t get it.  _ “I need to find him.”

She’s unrelenting, crossing her arms harder and icing him with a gaze that’s equal parts irritation and deep-set concern that makes his skin crawl a little. “That can wait -”

No, she really doesn’t get it. “No, it can’t.”

“Tony -”

“Peppper, he could be  _ dead  _ by now; I’m wasting fucking time -”

“And you could die if you go after him; Tony, you’re running the risk of getting  _ brain damage _ from that fight. You need to rest. I mean - what is this, like, a penance thing? Are you trying to drive yourself into the ground just to prove a point?”

He winces internally. It’s an understandable thought; this wouldn’t be the first time he went slightly off the deep end trying to help someone just to prove a point regarding all the other people he  _ wasn’t _ able to help. 

But this this that. 

“Can’t I just be doing this out of the good of my own heart, or something? Not everything I do is a plot to get myself conveniently killed, you know.”

She sighs, guilt flashing across her face. There’s something else too, something heavy and dark.They’re both thinking of the same things, then. The birth of Iron Man. The reactor explosion. The palladium poisoning, the wormhole, the fight wit Killian and Extremis, HYDRA and Sokovia and Ultron and Germany and Siberia and the millions of other times he’s flung himself under the wheels of impending death to do whatever it is he had to do.

But this isn’t that. This isn’t a sacrifice play, this isn’t something to alleviate the constant weight he’s been carrying around since Afghanistan - and every before then, too. This is his kid who can’t remember anything, who’s hurting people he doesn’t want to hurt and doing things he’d never do if he had the choice. This is his kid in the hands of a man who's promise to either kill him or make him suffer so bad Tony would wish he really  _ had  _ pulled the trigger on him. This is his kid who's on a one-way path to really becoming the next Winter Soldier. This is his kid who still jokes about Nat’s fashion sense, who still cracks tiny smiles at his god-awful jokes, who still apologizes for everything that isn’t his fault.

This is his kid who he just misses. With every fiber of being in his body.

“I’m sorry.” Pepper’s gaze is fixed on the ground now. She looks exhausted. “That was - unnecessary. I just - you haven’t taken a break for  _ six months _ , Tony. And these past few weeks have been  _ awful  _ for you and I haven’t been here and I just -”

“Hey,” he says softly. “That’s not your fault.”

Because it isn’t. Pepper Potts is a saint amongst men and Tony’s lucky she’s still even here in the first place. He’s lucky that she’s taken another catastrophe he’s caused head on without so much as a murmur of complaint. 

He’s lucky she’s here, period. Nothing else to it.

“I just - of course I love him, of course I miss him. But I love  _ you  _ too. And when I hear that you’ve been shot, or - or beaten half to death -”

“You wonder if it’s all worth it,” he finishes. 

Her face twists a little, brows pulling together. “Even though I know it is.”

“It is,” he echoes. 

She sighs, slumping back against the arm of the chair. “I can’t stop you, can I?”

Part of Tony wants to lie, wants to look her in the face and promise he’ll get back in bed and close his eyes and sleep peacefully for the next twelve hours. Part of him wants to tell her he can move on without another thought, accept the fact that getting Peter back might prove to be the one task he can’t complete. Part of him wants to tell her he can let this rest. 

Part of him wants to believe that. 

But it’s his kid out there. His Peter. 

(And he’s never so much as breathes the s-word aloud - it never felt right, what with Ben’s passing only a few years ago and his endless capacity for putting his family in danger over and over again, but, after time, he’s started to think of Peter in that way. He’d started to think of Peter as _ that _ to him.)

And he can’t give that up. Beaten and half-broken and clinging to the cliff above the abyss of giving up as he is, it’s still Peter out there. It’s still Toomes who needs to pay. He knows this. Pepper knows this 

Pepper, despite her concern, despite her almost-anger,  _ understands _ this. Wants Toomes to eat it almost as much as him, probably. 

So he doesn’t lie. He just shakes his head silently. 

She sighs again. “Then there’s two things you need to know. One, Steve and Nat tracked down the HYDRA ops in charge of breaking Toomes out.”

Pepper hands him a hefty-looking stack of papers with the words ‘STATUS: COMPLETED’ stamped out across the front in angry red block letters. Tony whistles a little, thumbing through the pages with one hand. 

“Already? They left, like, a week ago.”

“I’m pretty sure Steve’s greatest pleasure in life is taking down HYDRA operatives and Nat writes mission reports like she breathes oxygen so, honestly, this is pretty normal for them, I think.”

Tony grins. She’s totally right. Then the grin slips a little when he remembers  _ why  _ Steve and Nat were looking for HYDRA operatives in the first place and he has to actively stop himself from crumpling the mission report in his hand. 

_ I hear you’ve gotten your hands back on Peter. How long do you think that will last? _

“Is this - serious? Should we be, I don’t know, worrying about other cases of this?”

Pepper shakes her head a little. “From what I can tell, it seems like the ops were only doing it for money, really. Toomes is - well, not exactly the fountain of wealth since prison, but he’s got a lot of friends who slipped some cash into the deal, apparently. And, of course, they’re rouge HYDRA guys, so naturally they’d jump at the chance to do anything bad to the Avengers or anyone Avengers-affiliated.”

“So, no other Winter Soldiers popping up?”

“That’s the idea,” Pepper says grimly. “They - they used similar technology to what was done to Bucky. A -  _ medieval _ form of electroshock therapy, basically. A lot stronger, so that’s why Peter wasn’t able to hold out for - for as long as Bucky. There’s - footage. The ops kept records of what they did and Steve found the tapes. He got through half, apparently, before he had to - stop.”

Her hand shakes as she grips her arms together and something deep inside Tony wrenches. 

“They -”

“It’s bad, Tony. It’s really bad.” She shakes her head, eyes closing. She looks sick and the thing inside Tony keeps on wrenching and he can almost physically feel it tearing at his insides. “You’re not watching it.”

He probably will - later, when Peter is back and safe and Tony is somewhere in aforementioned nice quiet space and ready to feel another violent bout of self-loathing - but Pepper looks so sick and scared right now that he feels that probably wouldn’t be an extremely helpful thing. 

So he settles for pushing himself off the bed and closing the distance between them. After all these years, it’s still amazing how easily they melt into each other, how comfortably her head slots into the curve of his shoulder and how comfortably his hands wrap around her back. She relaxes, sighing a little and Tony feels some of the pent-up tension in him dissipate oo, dissolving into the air around him. 

_ You don’t deserve this,  _ says the ever helpful voice in the back of his head, all snarls and coldness, as usual.  _ You lost him and you’re, what, standing around like you’re warranted love right now? Find him.  _

Maybe he isn’t warranted love, but Pepper certainly is. Always will be. 

Still, the kid is gone, and the voice makes a painfully good point. He still has his list to complete. 

“What was the second thing you needed to tell me?” he murmurs into the top of Pepper’s head. A part of him already knows, he thinks, but he needs to hear it. Needs to hear it from someone safe and rational and calm so he won’t go hauling himself across the Tower and climb into the Iron Man armor in a fit of blind rage. 

“Friday’s scans picked up the location,” Pepper says after a pause. The tension is back in her now. “She and Rhodey and Bucky have found Toomes. Sent a recon drone.”

Tony closes his eyes. He knows, he knows. 

_ Your fault. Your fucking fault.  _

“He has him,” she whispers and something deep inside him splinters in half. 

A picture flashes through his mind. It’s the moments before the fight in the holding cell, when the kid had curled himself up against the wall, shaking and panting and half-screaming like hell was opening up at his very feet. Never - never, in all the months and years he’d had of being exposed to the more trauma-ridden sides of Peter - had he seen the kid that upset, that utterly  _ terrified.  _

And that is all  _ \- all  _ \- because of Toomes. 

And now he has the kid again. He’s going to do the exact same thing, over and over and over until Peter well and truly breaks. 

Tony’s going to kill him. 

The only thing stopping him from running straight up to wherever that excuse for a  _ piece of shit _ is is Pepper, still in his arms, still shaking in the tiny, compressed way she does that tells Tony she’s really, really upset.

_ Your fa - _

“I have to get him,” he says, cutting his thoughts off swiftly. “Yeah?”

He feels her nod. Exhale forcefully. “Yeah.”

“Rhodey, Buck -”

“Weapons room.”

He nods, resting his chin atop her head. “I love you,” he says after a pause. Because it’s true and he’ll never, never get tired of saying it. “I really love you a lot. I know these past few months haven’t been easy - exact definition of the opposite, really - but you’re still here and you’ve done - a lot, a crazy amount - and I just - I’m very grateful. I’m very grateful and lucky and I love you. Just in case -”

_ In case this all goes to shit and I fail and Toomes somehow wins because we both know there’s no coming back home from that.  _

She knows. It fucking sucks that she does, but she does. 

“Stop it,” she just mutters. “You're coming back. You both are.”

He nods. What a world that would be. 

They eventually break apart to the sound of Friday’s voice sounding throughout the med bay. 

“Mr. Barnes and Colonel Rhodes approaching, sir.”

“Awesome,” he mutters, shifting back. He’s still sore - very,  _ very  _ fucking sore - but once he starts moving around it’ll be okay. Since they’ve integrated Helen Cho’s cell modification advances into the Avengers Towers, injuries heal a lot quicker. The science is still a little foggy to him - he’s been meaning to sit down with her and pick her brains about it for months now - but whatever it is, it’s a lifesaver. “Call the suit.”

“Waiting by the exit for you, sir.”

Then the doors open and in walk Rhodey and Bucky. Their expressions are twin ones of unrelenting steel. 

“We got him.” Bucky’s voice is as hard as his face. He’s decked from head to toe in black leather, an M249 clenched in one hand.

“I know. Where?”

“Upstate.” Rhodey this time. He’s donning his War Machine armor, polished to perfection, and Tony smirks a little, despite himself. The new mark looks totally badass. 

Totally badass and totally lethal. Rhodey’s a walking tornado of weaponry right now and, if knows anything about the man, so is Bucky. 

“Suit’s out front. Fri, plug in the coordinates you have locked in. Stealth mode for the Iron Man and War Machine suits - I’m talking full cameleon screen, sensor scramblers - put up the firewall encryption protocol 071 - keep 089 on standby, just in case. Also, we’re carrying Bucky, so factor in his weight for the power levels on my thrusters. Up it by - we’ll go with...23 percent. I’ll manually modify it if I need.”

“One day I’ll have a have the beginnings of any clue as to what you’re talking about,” Rhodey mutters. “One day.”

Tony smiles again, despite the tension hanging heavy in the air, despite the dull spin radiating through him and the way Bucky’s eyes linger on his face just a second too long and the worry he can feel pouring off Pepper. 

Because it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. They’re going to get Peter back for good this time - they _have_ to  

Any other alternative is unlivable. 

“Keep dreaming, sour patch.” He gives a final look back at Pepper. “Hold the fort, Miss Potts?”

“Always.” She gives him a smile and that’s all he needs, really. He turns on his heel, Rhodey and Bucky at his sides, and starts making his way to the door. 

To where his suit is, to upstate, to the base, to Toomes. 

To Peter. 

To his kid. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> szzz filler chap (sorry!!) + shameless pepperony bc i guess i gotta do everything the russos wont nowadays huh....also last one of these !! shits abt to go down in irondad town actually this time get very excited


	25. waves

Everything passes by in flashes. 

It’s like the holding cell, in a way. Disjointed. Slipping and out of consciousness. Everything is hazy and distant and unfamiliar. 

It’s like the holding cell. 

Except a lot more painful. 

Most of the time he can’t move. His head and jaw are locked into place by thick metal bands. There’s some wrapping around his arms and torso and ankles, pinning him down to the bed-like thing he’s strapped down to. 

It’s like being at the dentist, he thinks hazily at one point, and he’s not sure why. Dentist doesn’t hurt this much, though. 

It comes and goes in waves. Giant, pounding, tsunami-like waves. 

Coming from the headgear. He thinks. Hard to tell. Hard to focus enough to tell. 

He’s pretty sure the walls around him are dark. Dark and brick and cold and he remembers them in the same way he remembers Ned, in the same way he remembers Tony Stark. 

Does, but doesn’t. 

And, with each shock, with each ghost of a hand he can can feel on his face, on his chin, on his neck, he starts remembering it all less and less. 

 

* * *

* * *

 

_My name is Peter Parker._

The walls are dark. There’s darker stains on the corners and cracks. Everything smells like salt and iron. 

Every time he swallows his whole body convulses with pain. 

_My name is Peter Parker._

Because that’s what they’ve been saying. The - the people. In the room. The - the guy’s room. 

He closes his eyes. Everything is blurring at the edges. 

Ned. Ned’s room. 

Ned and - 

He swallows. Ignores the burst of pain that exploded through him. 

Ned and MJ. 

_My name is Peter Parker._

It’s all he can think coherently. All he can cling to in the dark room with the dark walls and the metal bands cutting into his skin each time he tries to jerk away from the shocks. 

_My name is Peter Parker._

A name that isn’t his. A body that isn’t his. A face that isn’t his. 

A door creaks open and a line of men file in. They’re dressed in black and armed to the teeth and something dull in the back of his head tells him that he should be very, very afraid. 

There’s a man leading the group. His hair is grey and smoothed back and his face is cut through by scars. 

Burn scars. 

 _Plane. Fire. Crash. Smoke. Sand. Burning_. 

He closes his eyes. He feels sick. 

 _Toomes_. This is Toomes. 

 _Sir_ , something inside him says coldly. _His name is_ Sir _._

Number Three. That’s who he is. Peter and Number Three and both of them and none of them and his bones are breaking where the bonds are and everything hurts too much for him to even be afraid as the man, as Sir, as Toomes, reaches out and grips his face, pulling his head towards him. 

His nails bite into his skin. He doesn’t breathe. 

“There’s the golden boy,” Toomes says. Snarls. There’s menace dripping from his voice so much he can feel it pooling around them. 

He swallows. 

The hand tightens. He can feel Toomes’s breath on his face. 

“Maybe you don't remember,” the man continues in a cold, icy voice. “What I said would happen to you if you ran. Do you?”

He closes his eyes. The man is too close. Too close. 

The hand tightens even more. He can feel his jaw cracking a little. 

“Do you?”

He doesn’t remember anything. 

“I’ll fill you in,” the man spits. “I said I would kill you. Ringing any bells?”

He nods out of instinct. It is. He remembers. He remembers that. 

“Good. You’ve been giving me a lot of trouble, you know? Always fighting back. Always running. Always - _remembering_.”

He doesn’t. He doesn’t remember. He - the room - the cell - the man - the kids - nothing. Nothing. 

He can’t remember. Everything is fuzzy. The hand is too tight. His ribs hurt. His head hurts. He can hear a whirring in the background and something cold and tight wraps around his insides. 

“We’re going to put a lid on that now,” continues the man. His hand is still tight. “Up the ante, so to speak. Full throttle.”

He shakes his head. No. No. He’s going to forget, he’s going to forget everything. It makes him forget. 

He grits his teeth. He can’t forget. He can’t forget. 

_My name is Peter Parker._

“We’ll have you back soon,” says the man, almost soothingly. The buzzing is getting louder. “Number Three.”

_My name is Peter Parker. My middle name is Benjamin. Named after my uncle. My aunt’s name is May. My parents are dead. I am also Spider-man. My friends’ names are Ned and MJ. I know who Tony Stark is._

“Goodbye, Peter.”

The buzzing reaches an ear splitting volume. 

 _My_ _name_ _is_ _Peter_ _Parker_. _My_ _name_ _is_ _Peter_ _Benjamin_ _Parker_. 

Then it hits. The shock. And everything goes black. 

 

* * *

* * *

 

It happens more like that. 

Waves. 

Blasts. 

He comes back. Occasionally. Sometimes it’s just the men with weapons. Sometimes he’s alone. 

Sir. _Sir_. 

He has another name. The man. 

He can’t remember. 

 _He_ has a name too. He knows. He repeats it before the shocks. 

Tries. Tries to. 

He can’t now. Not now. Too fuzzy. Too dark. 

He can’t think right. 

He can’t remember. 

 

* * *

* * *

 

“What is your name?”

_My name is Peter Parker. I am seventeen years old. I will be eighteen in two months. I -_

Shock. Everything goes black, then white, then starry. 

He blinks his eyes open. His head feels like it’s splitting open from the inside out. 

What was he saying again?

Then the man’s face comes back into view. Sir’s. His eyes are hard and dark and look like two tiny black holes. 

Oh, yeah. _My name is Peter Parker. My middle name is Benjamin. My uncle’s name was Benjamin. He -_

“What is your name?”

_He died in a mugging accident when I was fourteen. I saw it. I was there. I -_

“What the _fuck_ is your name?”

A punch to the face. He tastes blood. 

_That’s okay, because I heal fast. It’s a power I got when I was bitten by a spider when I was fourteen._

“Fucking _answer_ me,” the man snarls. His eyes are dark and cold and empty and yet burning. On fire. 

Everything’s burning. His body. His head. 

_This is my body. This is my face. These are my hands. I am Peter Parker. I will always be Peter Parker, even if I don’t think that._

“Last time, kid. What’s your name?”

_I am Peter Parker._

“Up it.”

“Adrian, it could kill him if we go any -“

“Did I stutter? Fucking up it.”

_I am good._

_My name is Peter Parker._

_I am good._

 

* * *

* * *

 

The next time they come, they come with a tray filled with knives and scissors and pointy looking needles. 

He doesn’t look at it anymore. It makes him feel sick. 

A man grabs his arm. Runs a gloved hand over it once and then pins his wrist down, fastening a metal belt over it. 

Something silver flashes into view. 

He swallows. 

_Don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream -_

His whole arm goes white-hot with pain _and he will not scream, he will not scream_ but, oh my god, they’re cutting into his arm and he can feel everything and it’s hurting, it’s burning in the way that the shocks burn, staring from his arm and exploding outwards and he can’t think, can’t think, can’t -

He starts screaming when he feels something go inside his arm. 

Inside. _Inside_. 

Then everything goes black again. 

 

* * *

* * *

 

He wakes up to the restraints again. Same bed. 

He was trying to do something. Trying to remember - _something_. 

He doesn’t know what. 

His arm hurts. 

There’s someone in the room. Corner of his vision. He can’t move, can’t turn to see them. The bands around his head aren’t gone, but they’re different. Metal instead of the rubber that was last time. 

Last time. What was the last time?

What was he trying to remember?

“What’s your name?”

 _No. No, no, no, no._ This was it. He had to remember this. He needed to. What’s his name? What is it? 

_Something, something._

“What’s your name?”

_No. no, no, no, no, please, no, please -_

The shock comes again. Different. From his arm. 

That’s new.  

Some time passes. He’s not sure. 

The person is still out of sight, but he can tell they’re there. He can hear them breathing. Hear their heartbeat. 

“What’s your name?”

_Number Three._

It comes without thinking and feels wrong off the bat. Feels heavy and unnatural. Feels like someone else’s voice saying it and he hates it. 

But he can’t stop his own voice from echoing the words aloud. 

“My name is Number Three.”

He leans his head back. Swallows. Everything is wrong and he doesn’t know why. 

_My name is Number Three. My name is Number Three._

 

* * *

* * *

 

They put something in his arm. 

The wound isn’t healing right, first of all. He’s supposed to heal automatically; he remembers Sir telling him about that before. 

He’s special. Special like that. 

Maybe there’s something wrong right now. Maybe he’s - something. Something is wrong. 

Everything is wrong. 

Sir comes in once or twice. Asks him things that he doesn’t remember. Questions. Says names that don’t stick in his brain like the should. 

He forgets them all. 

 

* * *

* * *

 

The thing in his arm is what shocks him now. 

Funny. Used to come from his head. Maybe they’ve rerouted it or something. Maybe they put more things in his head while he was out. Hurts enough for that to be true. 

Maybe. 

He doesn’t know anymore. 

 

* * *

* * *

 

They’re all there. They’re all there - Sir and his men. All in black, all dark and shiny and glinting and cold. 

And he’s standing. That's new. He doesn’t stand much. He’s in the chair a lot. 

In the chair with the bonds. They’ve broken every bone in clear lines across his body - ribs, arms, ankles.

He can barely stand, but he does. 

Sir is staring at him. Appraising. Cold. 

He doesn’t blink under the gaze. 

Something tells him he should. 

“Is he ready?” one of the men in black asks. His hair is close cropped and he has a scar running down the side of his face. 

Sir gives him another look. Dark. “I think so. Conditioning’s been intense, and I think it’s paid off. Plus, with the new sensors -“

“True,” the same man says. He shifts his gaze over to him. It’s just as dark and cold as Sir’s. “Where are we taking him?”

Sir taps a finger on his forearm. The sound is deafening. “Out of town. Europe, probably. We’ve gotta lay low. Especially now that HYDRA’s out of the picture.”

The man with the scar hums in agreement, folding his own arms to copy Sir’s stance. They stare at him in silence for a few more seconds. 

“Healing any better?”

The man’s scar twists as he frowns. “Nope. Still fucked up. I think it’s the stress, probably -“

“I thought he wasn’t supposed to feel _shit_ , never mind _stress.”_

“Yeah, but -“

A deep bang echoes around the room. Outside. Coming from outside. He closes his eyes, hunting for the source of the noise. Down - down the stairs. Basement, maybe? Is there even a basement here?

Something flashes across Sir’s face. He looks around. The man with the scar tenses visibly. Both their heart rates are climbing slowly. 

“The fuck was that?” Sir mutters, swinging his gaze to the other people in the room. They look scared. 

_Something’s coming._

He’s not afraid. This time. 

Footsteps pound, and then a door behind him crashes open. He smells the blood before he sees it. 

A sound of gunfire picked up. From the same place as the boom - the basement?

_Something’s here._

He tenses. He’ll have to fight it. He always does. 

“Breach -“ says - pants - the man smelling of blood. It’s coming from a gash on his temple. His gun is cocked and raised up in his arms. “There’s been a breach -“

“Who?”

“War Machine - and - and the Winter Soldier - and -“

_“What the fuck?”_

“- and Iron Man -“

There’s another white-hot surge of pain that shoots from his arm to his temple and his knees hit the ground automatically, like he’s a puppet and someone’s just sliced through the strings holding him up. 

His head presses against the cool floor. Concrete. Smells like chalk and salt. 

He doesn’t want to move. 

He doesn’t want to fight anymore. 

A boot connects with his ribs - broken, definitely still broken - and he curls up against it, awkwardly hitting the ground with his shoulder. He looks up into the gloom and the man with the scar peers down at him, face storming. Sir is nowhere to be seen.

“Did you bring them here?”

He just closes his eyes. He doesn’t even know who _they_ are. 

There’s another kick, then a jolt that makes his vision go red, then black, and when he wakes up he’s on his back in the corner of the room. 

His mouth tastes like iron. There’s blood dripping onto his top lip. Every molecule in his body is aching, like they’ve been pulled apart and smashed back together over and over again. 

He’s not going to fight. 

The man’s scar shines dully in the light. He’s yelling out commands, people are moving, guns are cocking, and he stays pressed up against the wall. He can feel the brick on his back, feel parts not crumbling away beneath his hands as he breathes in and out. 

He’s not going to fight anymore. 

Another door bangs open. Then another - much closer - then something shatters. There’s yelling, a loud popping noise that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his stomach twist painfully, and heavy scraping. 

He closes his eyes. 

He knows almost nothing now. He knows he was close - close to knowing, close to remembering - and the loss of that feels almost physical. Hurts like his arm, hurts like his head. He knew, and now he doesn’t. 

But if there’s one thing he does know, it’s that he’s hurt people before. Killed people. Killed people he didn’t want to. 

He’s done with that. No amount of shocks, no amount of beatings and surgeries and boots connecting with his ribs will change that. Everything is fuzzy and out of reach and he feels like he’s been falling forever, just waiting to hit the ground and shatter away into unfeelingness, but, until then -

_As long as he’s in control -_

The popping has stopped. The room is silent, save for a heavy creaking making its way towards him. 

He opens his eyes. Two twin white slits stare back at him, surrounded by a black and silver face plate. The shine is dulled by a layer of dust coating it, but it’s still there. 

War Machine. He remembers this. Sir made him remember. Sir told him he was bad. _Kill_ _on_ _sight_ type of bad. 

And part of him knows he can - there’s a gun not two feet away from his hand; he can take out anything and everything with just his hands, even. Part of him wants to. Part of him looks at War Machine, with its shoulders rising and falling with the breath of the man inside the armor and the hollow white eyes, and feels nothing but a violent sort of vindication. _Kill him_ , the voice screams. _It’s your mission - kill him._

But he’s started ignoring that part. That voice. Tuning it out. 

He’s done with killing.

The faceplate slides back with a hiss. The man underneath looks tired, a grimace playing out across his lips. There’s sweat beading on his brow. 

But his eyes are gentle. War Machine isn’t looking at him with any anger, any coldness, any menace. The man just looks a little sad, maybe, and something inside him twists. The familiar pull is back, the endless tug of _something, something, something._

War Machine sticks. hand out, and he flicked back, pressing his neck into the corner of the wall. He can’t - he can’t keep doing this. No more shocks. No more pain. He can’t, he can’t -

“Hey, hey,” War Machine says, throwing a gaze over his shoulder before edging closer. He presses himself further into the wall because this is War Machine and he’s going to hurt him; that’s what he does. That’s what they all do. The Avengers, Sir and his men. All of them. 

He’s done. He’s done with hurting. He‘s so tired. 

“Hey,” War Machine says again, his voice just the right combination of soft and firm to make him stop pressing back. “Buddy, hey. Not gonna hurt you, okay? I - I know you don’t k ow me and done have fuck kind of idea what’s going on, but I’m not gonna hey you, okay? Gonna get you out of here.”

His hand is still there. Still waiting. 

He pulls his own hand out from behind his back. Studies it for a second. There’s dried blood around the wrist from whatever they did to his arm - they haven’t cleaned it off, probably never would’ve - and scars on his knuckles. His nails are bitten down, skin around the edges of his fingers torn up. 

It’s shaking. 

“I don’t wanna fight,” he says and his voice is so soft. Shaking, too. 

War Machine’s face twists for a split second before it reassumes a neutral look. “I know, buddy. I’m not gonna make you, okay?”

The man’s hand extends further. 

And he takes it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peter having a bad time part 1739473....ur welcome....it’s Ok tho rhodey and tony and bucky are here and they’re ready to kick names and take ass...<3


	26. plan

“So, remind me of the plan again?”

“Do you ever pay attention to me? Like, ever? Generally speaking, when I talk, it's nice to know I won’t have to repeat myself _six billion times -_ ”

“This is the _second_ time I’ve asked you to repeat the plan, James, I’m just trying to get a handle on things -”

“Be a lot more helpful if you got a handle on things in time with everyone else, _James  -_ ”

“Hey, hey, _hey._ Tone it down, okay? How about we shelve the differences and get the kid back first, okay? Then you can go back to bickering like an old married couple and driving me so far up the wall I can’t see the ground anymore.”

At Tony’s reprimand, Rhodey and Bucky finally fall silent - _thank god_ , Tony thinks to himself. He’s known Rhodey long enough to know that a short temper is basically guaranteed to come along with the guy in high-stress situations and, apparently, Bucky’s the exact same way. They got through most of the trip up here in total silence - Tony, for one, was too busy trying to combat the physical sensations of borderline-terror washing over him to make much conversation - but after they landed, the dialogue sparked back up within a few minutes.

Rhodey and Bucky both duck their heads, giving each other what Tony interprets as mildly-apologetic glances and not homicidal ones. Whatever. He knows they like each other on some sort of genuine level and, besides, Tony really, really does not care about stuff like that right now. Not even remotely close to doing so. The only thing he’s interested in right now, the only thing he’s able to come _close_ to focusing on is a seventeen year old kid being kept not a hundred feet away from them.

Tony swallows. The heavy knowledge that they, under no circumstances, can fail this time had really started to sink in on the flight over here and now it feels like he can barely move underneath the weight of it. Not only is it likely that Toomes will be moving Peter soon - probably somewhete out of the country - which measn they’ll have to start the whole searching-for-him process all over agian which could take even longer than six months the second time around, but Tony’s half convinved that Peter won’t be able to take much more of whatever the fuck Toomes is doing to him to turn him into Number Three befote he snaps, dies, or both in quick succession. And Tony still hasn’t watched the tapes Steve had returned, but he knows whatever’s on them is not going to be good.

Understatement of the fucking year. He’d seen the HYDRA files from Bucky’s sojourn as the Winter Soldier, and he hadn’t been able to sleep for a week after watching them. He probably won’t be able to survive even five minutes of the tapes for Peter.

So he didn’t watch them - _yet_ \- but yeah. It’s bad. Bottom line is, they need to get Peter out. _Now_.

“Tones?” Rhodey’s voice comes floating over to him and he blinks, shaking his head a little. Right. They’re here. It’s time to focus. 

“Yessir,” he mutters back, jerking his head. “So, plan.”

Rhodey’s gaze stays on him for just a fraction longer before he switches it to the base in front of them. “Yeah. Plan.”

The base in question looks more like a low-security state prison than what he expected a base for a group of radical HYDRA ops and ex-cons with bones to pick, but it looks like it does the job. The main part of the building is a concrete rectangle, the greyish-white walls glowing out at them, illuminated by the floodlights encircling the perimeter. A huge wire fence surrounds the building, too, topped with nasty-looking rolls of barbed wire. 

Not exactly the most welcoming of bases, sure, but not the most threatening, either. He can see a handful of guards at each major entrance point and the obvious flashing of lights from the watchtower at the center of the building which indicates more sentries and probably a couple of security cameras, but nothing more. Tony’s taken down worse on his own, and now he has two of the most skilled combatants he knows at his side, plus Nat and Steve coming in hot with a team of FBI agents in tow.

He shouldn't be worried. At all. He worries and he’s going to fuck up - that’s how these things go - and they can’t fuck up - _he_ can’t fuck up. 

This is it, after all. A part of Tony knows that even if the rest of him furiously protests the fact, reminds him that they’ve lost Peter a handful of times and managed to get him back each one, so why would this time be any different? But it is different and Tony can’t really explain it; it just _is_. They fail - he fails - and that could very well be it. 

Rhodey starts talking again and Tony forcefully rips himself out of his thoughts. He needs to focus. He needs to do this right.

“You upload Friday into their dataframe,” Rhodey says. He’s still staring straight ahead at the base. “Get all their systems offline. Then, from up here, fire a repulsor blast into the sentry tower. That draws the guards out and Bucky and I head in and take them. By then, you should have access to the map of the base, including heat signatures and where everyone is, approximately. It’s likely Toomes will pick up on the breach fast, so we have to move faster. Tony - you get a read on where Peter is and Bucky and I will go to get him and bring him out as soon as possible. We take him back up here and wait until Steve and Nat arrive - should be just a few minutes. Meanwhile, Tony will find Toomes. Ideally speaking, no one dies. We knock him out, stun him, whatever, but we - _you_ \- keep him alive. We need to find out what he’s been doing - what tech he’s been using and _how_ exactly he’s been using it if we want the kid to make a full recovery, okay?”

That is, arguably speaking, Tony’s least favorite part of the plan.

 _“Okay?”_ Rhodey repeats, throwing a hard gaze over his shoulder to Tony. “Tones?”

“Okay,” he echoes. Yeah, he really hates this part of the plan. As far as he’s concerned - and Rhodey is, too; come on, his _do things the right way_ attitude can’t even come close to fooling Tony now - there is currently no one more deserving of death-by-well-aimed-repulsor-blast than Adrian Toomes on the planet right now.

 _He’s mine, Stark._ Mine. _I made him._

Absolutely no one.

_How long do you think that will last?_

But Rhodey is, as always, right. They have no hope of getting the kid back to normal if they kill the guy seemingly in charge of making him the way he is now. It’ll just be worse in the long run. Peter deserves recovery more than Tony deserves a chance to atone for putting the kid through all of this. So if he has to stay guilty and unsatisfied for the rest of his life, so be it. For the kid, it’s worth it. 

“Okay,” Tony says again, straightening up. His whole body is aching as expected and he can’t really breathe out of his nose right, but the suit’s doing most of the heavy lifting for him and he’s too focused on the endless loop of _get Peter get Peter get Peter get Peter_ playing out in his mind to pay much attention to any soreness. They’re close; they’re so close. He can’t fuck this up now. “Okay. I’ll get going on Friday now. You two do whatever you gotta do.”

Rhodey’s faceplate hisses up as he turns to face Tony. “It’s going to be okay, Tony.”

 _Your mess, you fix it, your mess, you fucking fix it_. “Yeah,” he says, ducking his head because Rhodey’s gaze is bright and intense and it feels like his friend can see straight through him. “I know.”

“We’re going to get him.”

“I know.”

“This was never your fault.”

Tony stares very hard at a clump of grass by Rhodey’s left foot. His chest feels heavy. “Don’t die,” is all he says, after a pause. He’s not sure what else to say in response to that that won’t start a conversation he’s really not able to handle right now. First Peter, then whatever has to happen next. That’s how it is right now. “Please.”

He hears Rhodey huff a laugh. “Solid advice. I could say the same to you.”

“I’m unkillable.”

“So am I.”

Tony finally breaks his staring match with the dirt to meet Rhodey’s gaze and tries his best not to flinch back at the solid wall of emotion that’s in it. 

“Is this going to work?” he asks - whispers, really. Suddenly it’s the 1980s and they’re in their dorm room in MIT and Tony is fifteen and there’s a bruise on his cheek and Rhodey’s hands won’t stop shaking as he carefully dabs at the cut with an antiseptic wipe and Tony’s so scared and tired he can barely breathe and all he wants is Rhodey’s reassurance, his smile and laugh and promise that _everything’s gonna be okay now, Tones, you have me_.

The present-day Rhodey gives him a smile that’s very much like the one he got that day in the dorm room - a little tired and more than a little sad but still the most reassuring thing on the planet and a fractional amount of the tension weighing heavy in Tony’s chest dissipates. “Of course, Tones,” his friend says, placing an armored hand on Tony’s equally armored shoulder. “We’re gonna get him back.”

He returns the smile, even if it feels more like a grimace on his own face, and steps back a little. “Alright, then. Off you go.”

Bucky emerges from the shadows of wherever he snuck off to to give Tony and Rhodey some space and shoulders the M249. His face is tight. Rhodey gives Tony’s should a final squeeze before his faceplate slides back down, eyes glowing white, and he wraps his arms around Bucky’s chest, ascending into the sky without another word.

And then Tony’s alone and panic is starting to claw at his chest, the horrible, sick feeling in his stomach rearing its head, hissing at him that this is never going to work and Peter’s going to die and he already failed the kid six months ago; what’s the point of trying to make things better now?

He shoves it down. _Focus._ “Friday?”

“Hello, sir.”

“Yeah, hi. How’s getting into the mainframe going?”

A display lights up his view of the base, illuminating what looks like the wiring of the building in bright blue lines. They all seem to be moving towards what looks like a giant box in about the center of the building on the bottom floor - the power grid, no doubt. He can see tiny brighter blue pulses traveling to and from the box almost like it’s a heart powering the body of the building. He grins a little. _They’re in_.

“I have accessed the mainframe, sir,” Friday says into his ear. “Would you like me to turn the power grid off now?”

“I would love that,” Tony replies, still grinning. “Are the comms up?”

There’s a faint crackle in his right ear, then, “Tony? You copy?”

Bucky’s Brooklyn lilt bleeds into his ear and he feels his smile widen. Part of him knows it’s stupid to get this hopeful after only five minutes of a mission but they’re here and things are working and maybe they have a shot at this. Maybe.

“Yessir,” he says aloud. A notification pops up on his screen - Friday’s turned everything off - and he turns his attention back to the comms. “Systems are offline. Firing the blast in a sec. You guys good to go?”

“Ready.” Rhodey’s voice now. It’s tense with anticipation.

Tony nods to himself and steps out from the shadows of the outcrop he’s positioned on. He fires up the thrusters, raises his hand, sends a quick, final prayer to whatever god that’s still listening to him after all these years for _this to just go right, please, please let us get him home_ and fires.

The explosion shatters the silence surrounding the base in a cloud of bright orange and smoke and Tony watches, still grinning, as he sees crowds of sentries sprint across the grass, dodging flaming pieces of debris to inspect the damage done. His smile only widens as, from seemingly out of nowhere, Rhodey and Bucky descend from the sky and open fire. Repulsor blasts mingled with gunshots pierce the already broken silence further and, from somewhere deep inside the building, Tony can hear alarm bells start to ring.

They’re in. _They’re in._

He taps the side of his helmet urgently. “Amazing work, Friday. Now, the kid. Where -”

“Mr. Parker is, I believe, located on the third floor in the furthest room to the west.” The floorplan of the building illuminates itself on his screen, the building and heat signature in question outlining in bright white. “He is with six other guards.”

Tony feels himself nod. _He’s alive_. “And Toomes?”

“I have hacked into the security camera footage running through the building. Toomes was previously in the same room as Mr. Parker but as soon as the sentry tower was hit and Colonel Rhodes and Sergeant Barnes opened fire, he departed. It now appears that he is headed to the ground floor - towards the power grid, I believe.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Tony hisses, firing up his propellers. He shoots into the air and swoops down towards the main entrance of the building, blasting open a hole in the fence. “Rhodey? How’s it going?”

Rhodey’s comm opens up the final sounds of gunfire cracking filling Tony’s head. “Swimmingly. You got a location on the kid?”

“Third floor, farthest room to your right. Maybe enter from the inside; I don’t want to scare him anymore.”

“Roger that. Bucky, you good?”

More gunfire. Then, amidst a series of heavy grunts, “Yeah! All good! You - get him - ah, _fuck you_ -” Bucky cuts off as the gunfire resumes with full vigor. Tony just jerks his head again - if anyone’s got a handle on their current situation, it’s Bucky - and flies down so he’s level with the door. A couple of guards are still standing there, wide eyes shining out at him through the gloom. They look young - can’t have a more than a few years on Peter at the most - and Tony almost feels bad about putting them through a raid, but then he remembers that all of these people are working for Toomes and probably know what he’s doing to the actual _child_ on the third floor, and the guilt mostly disappears.

One of them raises their gun at him and Tony tips his head to the side. 

“Out of the way, kiddo,” he snaps, raising his hand in time with the whir of his blaster picking up. That does the trick, and the two guys run off.

Tony blasts a hole through the door and ducks inside. Friday’s already pulled up a path to where Toomes allegedly is without his asking - good thing. He’s not sure he could speak if he wanted to. Everything about this place feels oddly familiar - the walls, the ground, the strange darkness, even as the lights above him shine on. It reminds him of the video footage, of the security tape and the man telling him _don’t even bother, he can’t hear you_ and Peter on the floor, Peter on his knees, Peter with blood running down his face and eyes shining as he begged Tony to take care of May, Peter with his face pressed up against the ground as something dark and black-looking pooled out from around him, Peter -

Tony hits the ground hard, spikes of pain shooting up through him. He winces, hissing out a breath, and furiously shoves the playback of the final message from Peter out of his mind, The kid isn’t dead. The kid didn’t die and they held a funeral for someone who wasn;t dead and he’s _alive_ , he’s alive and he spent god-knows how long with Tony in the cell moving and breathing and being _alive_ and none of that - nothing in the past weeks or months - matters more than that fact now. Because Peter is alive - after everything he’s still alive - and Tony has a chance to make this right now - his last chance, maybe. He has a chance to bring his kid home once and for all.

And Rhodey’s getting him. Rhodey’s going to make sure he’s safe and he and Bucky will get him out of harm's way and leave Tony to deal with Adrian Toomes, to deal with the man that put his kid through hell and back and Tony is going to make this _right_.

“Rhodey,” he hisses into the comms. “You -”

There’s a pause, a crackle of static, then - “I got him. He’s okay.”

Relief mixed with joy and fear and terror and anger slams into him like a wave. He feels himself nod. _He’s okay._  

The heat signature from inside the room bobs around, moving from corner to corner to corner like it’s pacing. He can almost feel the fear radiating off the person inside, even through the metal doors separating them, and a dull sort of satisfaction cuts through him.

 _Peter’s okay_.

Tony is going to make this right. Tony has to make this right. 

He raises a hand and even the suit can pick up on how much it’s shaking.

_Your fault, your fault, your fault -_

Then he fires, the doors blasting off their hinges, and steps inside. 

The man, who’s since stopped by the power grid, jerks back, spins around, and smiles.

_Toomes._

Tony feels himself step forward, hand still raised. His whole body feels like it’s on autopilot.

 _Kill him_ , something inside him screams, the same part that can’t look at the walls around him without seeing the bunker and the blood at the body of Peter, the same part of him that had to live with the death of his kid for months and months and months; the death of his kid perpetuated by the man standing in front of him. The same part that has done all of this, dragged himself through an endless tunnel of grief, with the knowledge that at least Toomes will die at the end of it and he will be the one killing him. 

But he can’t. Because Peter is still alive and Peter would want him to show mercy. He would want Toomes to live, be punished fairly and correctly and not in a way that could put Tony at risk. 

So he doesn’t fire. Just keeps his hand raised and tips his head to the side a little. 

“Remember when I said,” he forces out slowly, shocked at how calm his voice says. “That I would give you a deal?”

Toomes doesn’t speak. His eyes are dark in the gloom of the power grid room. Tony can see them flicking from side to side, looking for a way out, a way around the figure of the Iron Man suit blocking the only door. 

_Coward. Fucking coward._

“Remember that?” Tony presses, stepping forward. He doesn’t drop his hand.

Toomes’s face twists, eyes screwing up in barely restrained fury. Tony can see burn scars mingling with wrinkles all across the man’s face, thrown into heavy relief by the overhead light burning above them. 

Tony closes the distance without so much as another breath, pushing himself up against Toomes so that his still-activated blaster is an inch away from the man’s neck and finally - _finally_ \- the tiniest flicker of fear crosses the man’s face. One flicker of fear to match the lifetime worth of terror Toomes has put a seventeen year old child through in the space of half a year.

It’s not fucking fair.

“ _Remember?”_

Peter didn’t deserve this. Out of all the people on the planet, Peter’s on the bottom of the list of people who didn’t deserve what happened to him.

The glow from the repulsor turns Toomes’s face an ashy-white color. His eyes glint through the darkness and Tony can see him swallow.

“I remember,” the man rasps.

“I said you could come to me,” Tony says and now is voice is shaking, shaking with the weight of _everything_ that’s happened in the past six months that’s threatening to explode out of him. “And I would go easy on you.”

“You said you’d throw me in a federal fucking penitentary,” Toomes snarls.

Tony presses his hand down harder, the buzz of the reactor muffling into the collar of Toomes’s shirt and it would be so easy, so fucking easy to just fire a hole through this man’s chest and be done with it. It would be so easy to kill him - almost laughably so - and Tony wants to so bad. He wants Peter to be able to sleep at night knowing that, despite what happened having happened, he is safe from Toomes now. He will never hurt Peter again, never strap him to a chair and shoot his brain full of electricity and make him hurt people and _never_ lay a fucking finger on him again.

He wants to do what he should’ve done the first time around, when he had found out what really happened on the beach and at that parking garage, when he learned that Toomes was willing to drop a _building_ on a _fifteen year old kid_ and _crush_ him just because he was getting in the way.

He doesn’t. He should, maybe, but he doesn’t. Just leans in closer. 

“That _would’ve_ been me going easy on you,” he hisses, letting unbridled anger drip from his voice. “That would’ve been your best fucking case sceario, _Adrian_. Maybe you’d have gotten out early if you were a good boy and didn’t break out to brainwash any more fucking _children_ , huh? Parole? Privilidges? _Not_ being locked in solitary confinement until you die of old age? Ever think about that?”

“Oh, please,” Toomes spits. “You would’ve _never_. And what, now that your stupid little deal’s been blown to shit, what are you gonna do? Kill me?”

“Keep asking and I just might, _fuckass_ -”

“You don’t actually think I believe that, do you? You’re too weak,” Toomes cuts in, softer now, shaking his head a little. His words come quickly, like he’s been preparing what he’s about to say next and something instinctively twists in Tony’s stomach. That can’t be fucking good. “It makes sense. He broke so easily, you know.”

Something cold explodes in the pit of Tony’s stomach.

“So - weak, really. No other word for it. You know, the Winter Soldier - your friend out there - was in captivity for 70-something years. Managed to resist their brainwashing for a good 20 years before he finally became all supersoldier-psycho and started shooting dignitaries and presidents - oh, and your parents, of course.”

The coldness starts crawling up Tony’s stomach, into his chest, wrapping around his lungs. He inhales slowly, shakily.

“And our pal _Peter_ lasted less than a month before he forgot his own fucking name. Spent the first three weeks muttering shit over and over to himself - _my name is Peter Parker, my name is Peter Parker -_ all that bullshit and, by the time the month was out, he couldn’t even fucking remember your face. Or his aunt’s. Or his friends, or _anything._ It was pathetic, really. He just - _caved_. Like a fucking sandcastle, honestly; it was embarrassing! Hard to believe that was the same kid who had guts enough to almost get crushed to death by a car park for the sake of hauling my ass in, right? He’s gone soft since then, really.”

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

“I think the best part was when we got him back. Picked him up at some random kid’s house. They’d done something to him - brought _Peter_ back out from the shadows, which couldn’t do, of course. As far as I’m concerned, Peer died the second we pretended to shoot him downstairs. But, yeah, he was being _real_ fucking annoying. Remembering shit, going on and on about how _you_ were gonna come and _save him_. How we were all so _screwed_ because _you_ were gonna come. Kept saying that even after he couldn’t tell your face from mine. Funny, right? Six months too late, wouldn’t you say?”

_Breathe. Don’t kill him. Just breathe._

“We put a pulse in his arm. Well, actually, it goes from his arm to his head. Makes the shocks a lot easier - we don’t have to wrangle him into that chair every other day now, thank god. That was a pain - he would always bitch about that, say we were _hurting_ him. Well, he didn’t talk much, but you could tell it hurt. Could see it in his eyes. But anyways, yeah, pulse. Unfortunately, the anesthetic ran out pretty fast, so it became open surgery pretty quick.”

Toomes leans into him now before Tony can even breathe, even formulate a thought in relation to what the man says that’s something more than a cavernous ache in his chest and the smell of iron and copper and the horrific buzzing feeling inside of him as a car battery on the table next to him powered his heart. Peter - they did _that_ to Peter, they did what they did to him to Peter, they _fucking_ -

“God, you should've heard him scream.”

Tony, by some miracle of fucking force, manages not to fire. Instead, he swings his unoccupied hand around, slamming it straight into Toomes’s face. A grim smile twists across his mouth as he feels something crunch underneath his knuckles and a strangled grunt exits Toomes’s mouth. He lets the man hit the floor before picking him back up and slamming him back against the power grid, one hand wrapping around the man’s neck and the other pressing against his ribs. More cracking. More grunts of pain. Blood is dripping down Toomes’s chin. His eyes are half-closed.

And nothing - _nothing_ \- Tony does to him now will ever compare to what he’s put Peter through. The thought of that makes him want to scream.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Tony hears himself say. His voice is shaking. “Because I don’t have the time of fucking day to get your blood out from the cracks of this armor. What we’re going to do is sit nice and quietly until the FBI show up and throw your ass in, as you put it so _eloquently_ earlier, a federal fucking penitenary. And I will make sure they know what - _shit_ you did to that child upstairs and - trust me on this one - the chance for time off with _good fucking behavior_ is gone. Visiting hours? Gone. Parole? Gone. A lawyer who gives half a shit about what happens to you after you walk out of whatever courtroom gets stuck with your disgusting ass? _Gone._ You’re going to prison and this time you’re not going to get out. No more HYDRA buddies for you to team up with, no more convoluted fucking plots for revenge. You’re leaving and I’m taking my fucking kid and if I ever see your ass outside of a prison again, I will blast your head into another fucking dimension and, trust me, _Adrian_ , I don’t miss when I don’t want to, and I _definitely_ do not fucking want to. You’re _fucked_ now, buddy. It’s over. I warmed you about that, how you would _never_ walk away from doing what you did to Peter, right? I did, didn’t I?”

Toomes spits on the floor. His eyes are glassy. 

_“Didn’t I?”_

“He deserved it,” Toomes growls. Eyes closed now. “Fucking -”

“Listen to me,” Tony hisses, grabbing the man’s collar with two hands and slamming his back against the power grid. The metal behind him creaks a little. “Fucking _listen to me_ . You _failed_. Do you understand that? You had your shot at turning my kid all evil and into the next fucking Winter Soldier, or whatever you were trying to do, and you _failed_. He’s still himself. He’s still alive. He didn’t break, he didn’t disappear inside himself, he didn’t _die_ , or whatever you think happened. He’s alive and he’s safe and he’s going to be okay and do you want to know why that is? I’ll give you a fucking hint, it is _not_ because of me, that’s for sure. Or Rhodes, or Barnes, or _anyone_ who helped him. It’s because he is the _exact opposite_ of what you think of him. He’s stronger than you could ever _hope_ to be. You think your ass could last a _day_ in captivity before you were losing your mind and selling everyone you loved out left and right? You thinking you’d survive having an electrical wire put in your arm without being sedated? You  think you’d survive being beaten and half-killed every other night _god-knows_ what else you did to him and _still_ manage to be a good fucking person? Someone who’s loving and compassionate and tries to do good and take care of people under the most _horrific_ circumstances out there? You think you - _you_ \- could do all of that? _Hell no._ I couldn’t. No one else here could, but he can. Because he’s Peter _fucking_ Parker. Because _he_ is not _weak_. _Bastard._ ”

Toomes blinks. Tony can feel his chest risisng and falling underneath his hands. 

Then the man laughs. 

Throws his head back, eyes crinkling at the corners, and _laughs._

“The fuck?” Tony snarls, tightening his grip as the man beneath it fucking _wheezes_ out in between breaths. “What are you -”

“So fucking _gullible_ , Stark. You really think - oh my _god_ , did you really think I didn’t prepare for this? Sure, what the hell, throw me in prison. But I’m not going without the kid.”

“What do you -”

“Let me rephrase. If I go down, I’m taking him with me.”

A mix of terror and rage crashes into Tony, white hot and searing, and he all but buckles at the knees. What the fuck is he doing - _what the_ fuck _is Toomes going to do to his kid?_

And then -

No. No - but it makes sense, of course, of fucking _course_ \- why would he bring it up if he didn’t -

“Tony!” Rhodey’s voice crackles into life in his ear and _no, no, no, no_ \- “The - kid - something’s wrong - he’s spazzing out - not - okay -”

The rest of Rhodey’s voice is lost in a garbled mix of yelling and scraping on the other end and a blast of static and Tony lifts Toomes up and throws him across the room in one swift motion. The man hits the corner with a grunt and tries to stagger to his feet for all of two seconds before Tony’s there, knees on his chest, pinning him down. 

“Turn it off!” he snarls, raising his blaster again and _he’s not okay, he’s not okay, Peter is not okay because Toomes is electrocuting him_ from the inside _with the fucking wire_. “Turn it the fuck off _now!”_

Toomes’s attempt at a laugh is cut off as Tony grabs his closed fist and cracks the fingers open, pulling them apart to reveal a tiny, sleek-looking black remote tucked away in the palm of his hand. There’s a light blinking green at the base of it and every single nerve in Tony’s body is screaming and his vision is whiting out with terror and his hands ar shaking, shaking too much for him to turn the fucking thing off and _he’s going to die, he’s going to die, he’s going to die_ and before he can even take the time to breathe in Tony tosses the remote to the ground and slams his fist down on it. 

The plastic crunching beneath his hand is the loudest sound Tony’s heard in years. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

“Rho -” he grunts out. His vision is spinning - _he’s dead, he’s dead, you’re too late, he’s fucking dead._ “The - fuck - _fuck_ -”

“Get over here,” Rhodey’s voice is hard. _No. No, no, no,_ no.

“What’d I tell you?” Toomes mutters from underneath him, like he can hear what Rhodey’s saying, like he knows Peter could be dead. “We go down together, Stark.”

This time Tony does fire. The capsule hits Toomes’s chest harder than it should - Friday’s work, probably - and the man grunts as the holding piece opens up, spreading across his torso and arms and pinning him down to the ground. He struggles for a second before looking up at Tony, snarling.

Maybe. He doesn’t know. He’s gone before the blast even hit.

The path is already set out for him by Friday. Out through the metal, down the hallway he first came, out through the front doors and the hole in the gate and a hard right and back up to the outcrop and he can see bullet holes and blast marks lining the base walls and hear sirens and red lights slicing through the night in the distance and nothing matters, none of this matters except for the seventeen year old boy on the outcrop he lands on and promptly collapses next to.

Peter’s eyes are closed. There’s a horrific-looking scorch mark running along his left side - from the inside of his wrist all the way up to his temple. His legs are at awkward angles and there’s a heavy bruise running around the circumference of his neck like he’s been choked out for three hours straight. 

He looks broken. So small and so, so broken and Tony can feel his chest caving in, his world shutting down, the oxygen disappearing from the air around him as he puts a shaking hand on the kid’s head and smoothes his hair back.

His hand is shaking. He can’t breathe. 

_You failed, you failed, you failed -_

“Pete?” he whispers. “Buddy? You there?”

Nothing. Silence and nothing and he can’t say it, he can’t say _vitals_ , he can’t hear Friday’s voice say _nothing_ again in that same heavy, defeated tone; he can’t do this, he can’t lose Peter, he can’t, he fucking can’t -

“Kid?” he tries again, shifting closer. His knees are pressing into the kid’s right shoulder - he’s laying there, on the ground, collapsed - and he smoothes Peter’s hair back some more, carefully removing the strands from the kid’s eyes. Peter hates when his hair is in his face. Says he can’t see properly. “Buddy, come on. Come on - you - you gotta get up, okay? It - it’s okay now, you’re safe, we did it. We - you did it, buddy. You did it, I - I’m so proud of you, you did it, okay? No - this is never gonna happen again, okay? No one’s ever gonna hurt you, I promise, you just gotta get up, buddy, you gotta open your eyes, okay? Pete?”

Nothing. Nothing, nothing, _nothing_.

“Pete?” Tony smacks the side of his own head and his helmet retracts. His hands are shaking so hard he’s almost jerking the kid’s head around.

He can’t breathe. Everything is far away and too loud and too quiet and his whole body feels like it’s on fire and his stomach is twisting and he can’t feel anything except for the kid’s hair under his hand. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening, he can’t be -

“You - you gotta get up, please,” Tony forces out. Like it’ll do anything, like he’s doing anything, like all of this isn;t his fault, like he’s not the reason the kid is on the ground with his eyes closed and not answering. “C’mon, buddy. You - you gotta see May again - I - I know you told me to look after her, bud, but I’m _shit_ at that and I - you - Pete - please, you gotta wake up, please, you can’t - I can’t do this again, please - please, buddy -”

Tony’s vision is blurring. His eyes are burning. He can’t breathe. 

He can’t lose him again. Peter can’t die again. Tony can’t do this, he can’t go home without him. Without his kid, without Peter. He can’t

“Friday?” he whispers. His whole body is shaking now and it takes him a second to realize that it’s because he’s crying. Sobbing silently. “V-vitals?”

She never responds - or maybe she does, and Tony doesn’t hear it - because at the second that word leaves his mouth - like it’s a trigger, or like flicking a magic switch or something - it happens.

From underneath him, Peter coughs. Just once, a single, jagged noise. Then, again, then again, then he’s rolling onto his side to cough and cough and Tony can hear him dragging in huge, rasping breaths and he’s _breathing, he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s fucking alive_ -

From somewhere above him, someone breathes out, “thank fucking god.” It sounds like Bucky.

Peter rolls back onto his back, looking up at the sky. His eyes sparkle in the darkness and Tony swears it’s like there’s literal stars inside of them. 

_He’s alive. He’s alive._

Then -

 _I did it._ He _did it._

Peter blinks once, slowly. His eyes rove around, taking in his surroundings, no doubt - the trees, the still hazy battlefield below, the moon and the stars and the faces of Bycky and Rhodey above him - before definitevely settling on Tony.

And Tony swears right then and there that, after six months, the word starts turning again. 

“Hi,” he whispers to the boy below him. His voice is shaking with joy this time. 

Truthfully, he;s not expecting much. Consciousness is a win to him - the whole remembering things is something they can worry about when Peter’s had a month to just relax in the safety of the medbay. He doesn’t expect the kid to remember or care much about him, any of them. He’s alive and that’s all that will ever matter to Tony. That’s all he wants right now.

But then a tired, languid sort of smile crosses the kid’s face. The stars in his eyes sparkle with something bright and warm.

“Hi, Mr. Stark.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOO! almost had u there didn’t i!! contrary to popular opinion i did NOT forget about this fic we are BACK and wrapping things up everyone! sort of! thinking about a part 2 that is just all peter’s recovery/aftermath stuff. Who knows! lmk what u think!! hope u like this chapter! also i love writing bucky and rhodey as Bickering Old Married couple for literally no reason it’s so fun! also rhodeytony rights!! they are best friend excellence! ok that’s all much love! <3!


	27. okay

Steve and Nat and the FBI show up a handful of minutes after that. Rhodey - or maybe Bucky; Tony can’t really tell - goes off to talk to them. Tony’s half-aware of sirens wailing faintly in the background, of people milling around their little circle on the outcrop and the wreck of the base below them. He’s even less aware of a handful of agents going into the base from the very door he flew out of and returning a few minutes later with Adrian Toomes, now free of Tony’s metallic-straightjacket.

He doesn’t care about Toomes right now. He doesn’t know if he ever will.

Because Peter is here. Peter is blinking and talking and moving and breathing and alive and  _ that _ is the top thing Tony has cared about seeing in the past six months. The kid - his kid - next to him, safe and secure and alive.

Tony’s so happy he can barely speak. Barely think beyond the fact that  _ Peter is alive, Peter is safe and alive and coming home and we did it. _

They’re coming home. They’re safe. What a  _ fucking _ world.

At some point Steve and Nat come back over. A hand rests gently on his shoulder and - with huge difficulty - Tony wrenches his gaze away from the now-sleeping figure of Peter on the ground.

He keeps his hand in the kid’s hair, though.

It’s Steve. He looks tired and his hair is sticking up on end and there’s a streak of dried blood running down his temple but he’s smiling, the force of it seemingly cracking his face open, crinkling the corners of his eyes and Tony can’t help but smile back.

They did it. They won.

“He’s okay,” he says aloud, in case Steve couldn’t tell that by the fact that Tony’s still upright and alive. “We did it.”

Steve nods, still smiling. The hand on his shoulder squeezes a little tighter. “We have a long road in front of us. A lot of things to take care of.”

Tony nods. He knows that. “He’s alive,” is all he can say, though. 

Steve just smiles some more. “I know, Tony. You did it. Let’s get him home.”

He and Steve carefully pick up the figure of Peter - it’s too easy, really, and some of the earlier anger and sickness floods back into Tony; a seventeen year old kid should not be this easy to carry around, even with two people - and take him to where the quinjet is waiting. They load him into the makeshift medbay the plane has as Rhodey, Bucky, and Nat file in, bidding their goodbyes to the FBI agents still swarming the scene.”

“That’s not the last of them, trust me,” Nat announces, settling into one of the passenger seats. Rhodey moves to take the pilot seat, Bucky sitting down next to him. Steve sits opposite Tony, who’s firmly positioned himself next to Peter’s bed. 

Steve hums in agreement. Tony can feel his gaze burning through him and he doesn’t remotely care. “Think we should talk to SHIELD? Nick?”

“Definitely. Nick’ll want to hear about this, especially considering the situation with what they did to Peter. Too - Winter Soldier-y.”

“What about legalities? Criminal charges?”

This Tony  _ does _ care about. He jerks his head up, looking between Nat and Steve. “He’s not a criminal,” he says flatly. Surely they - surely  _ Steve _ \- has to understand that. After everything they went through with Bucky, Tony might actually murder the captain if he so much as looks Tony in the eyes and suggests Peter - the literal brainwashed  _ minor _ \- has to stand trial for what happened.

Steve ducks his head. “I know, I know. I’m just saying - if parents press charges -”

Tony snorts, a little vehemently. “Good luck to them if they do. He’s been  _ brainwashed _ , for fuck’s sake. He can’t be held responsible for what’s happened - that’s Toomes’s shit now. And HYDRA’s. And, anyways, if someone decides to bring charges to the table, I’ll handle it with his aunt. This is our business now.”

Steve nods again. “Of course.”

They stand up, moving towards the front of the ship. Tony lets them leave - he’s not particularly interested in what they’re doing right now. As soon as he gets home, he’s taking the kid to the medbay. Calling his aunt, calling his friends, calling Helen Cho and her team. They can assess the damage, hopefully -  _ hopefully _ \- say it’s not too bad, and then get to work getting this electrical wire out of him. Then - well, he’s not sure. It depends on how much rehabilitation the kid needs, how much he  _ wants _ to do - it’s all up to Peter at this point. And May, too, of course - god.  _ God _ . She’s getting her nephew back. He’s  _ back _ . He’s coming home.

Tony can’t stop fucking smiling. He just looks at Peter, sees him breathing in and out and just fucking _ grins _ like an idiot.

At some point Rhodey comes over and sits down next to him. He looks tired. But happy. So, so happy.

“Hey, Tones,” his friend murmurs.

“Hey.”

Rhodey leans up against him, head resting on top of Tony’s shoulder and he leans into the man too, his cheek pressed against the top of Rhodey’s head.

“You okay?”

His friend snorts. “Should be asking you that, dumbass. You didn’t look great coming out of that base.”

“Yeah, well, in my defense, I did think Peter was about to die.”

Rhodey makes a tiny noise of agreement. He sighs. Then, “You know it’s not over, right? Kid’s been in captivity for six months, basically. That’s - it’s gonna take a lot of recovery. A lot of work.”

“I know that,” Tony responds simply. Because he does and it doesn’t at all phase him. “It’ll be okay, though.”

“Of course, Tones, I wasn’t -”

“No, no, I know.” Tony shakes his head a little. “It’s just - I just think it’ll be okay. He - it’s not like he really was Winter Soldier-ified, where he had all this programming in his brain that made him go nuts with a couple of words, you know? It’s all brainwaves based, really. Toomes would target his memory receptors, make him forget everything, and then fill his head with shit about killing us all. It’s - point is, it’s very reversible. There’s no deprogramming we have to do except surround him with people he knows and trusts and wait for it to all come back. It - it’s going to be okay.”

_ I won’t rest until it is. _

“I know. He’s a strong kid. He’ll do it.” There’s a pause. Then, in an even gentler voice, “Work on your end too, I meant. It’s been a pretty shitty past few months for you, too, and you haven’t stopped to take a break since. You deserve time to heal too, you know.”

Peter’s back and safe, so the guilt doesn’t rear its head the second Rhodey starts speaking, but it’s by no means gone. Peter is still hurt. Peter still has an electrical wire in his body that’s burned him from the inside out. Peter’s life is still going to be irrevocably damaged because of this. Everything that happened in the past six months still happened, even if it's going to be okay now. That’s still on Tony. Rest is a little out of the question for him still - and he’s not exactly sure when it   _ won’t _ be, either - so he just grunts a little. 

Rhodey sighs. “It wasn’t your fault.”

And, again, things are okay now so it’s harder to be angry at that statement, but he still is. Because Rhodey’s wrong - is just as wrong as the first time he said it. “Yeah, okay,” Tony mutters.

Rhodey sits up, breaking contact, and, before Tony can react, takes Tony’s face in his hands and turns him so they’re making eye contact. 

“Have I mentioned how much I hate when you do this?” Tony says, a little weakly. There’s something about Rhodey’s gaze that’s making something tightly wound in his chest start to uncoil and he definitely doesn’t want it to. “‘S like you’re staring into my fucking soul, or somehting.”

“You did every single thing you could to keep him safe, Tony,” Rhodey says slowly. “And when he was kidnapped, you did every single thing to get him back. And you sure as hell didn’t stop when he supposedly died. You’ve been fighting to bring him home since day one - I’ve seen it all. You’ve done more than anyone could ever ask you to.”

“And he still got kidnapped,” Tony says flatly. His chest is aching all over again. “Everything still happened.”

Rhodey sighs again. He drops his hands so they’re gripping Tony’s shoulders, still keeping him facing in the same direction. “When you were kidnapped, wanna know what I thought? In the three months you were gone? Every single day I was thinking  _ this is my fault _ .  _ I should’ve made him ride in the same car as me, I should’ve protected him, I should’ve stopped this all from happening. _ I thought of a million and a half  _ what-if’s _ and  _ I should’ve’s  _ for three months straight. I ran myself into the ground looking for you - hell, getting you back in some way, shape, or form was all I could think about. I was thinking all the shit I’m sure you thought and still are thinking about what happened with Peter. Now, tell me, do you blame you getting kidnapped on me?”

Tony shakes his head aggressively, ignoring the sharp stabs of pain the motion sends through him. Now that the adrenaline’s finally wore off, his body is back to feeling like it’s gone six rounds with a garbage compactor and lost spectacularly. “No. Not for a  _ second _ , Rhodey, you did - shit, you did everything you could. I - could never -”

“No, I’m sure you couldn’t,” Rhodey says matter-of-factly. “Which is fair. Totally fair. So, tell me, if it wasn’t  _ my _ fault then, how is it  _ your _ fault now?”

“Because -”  _ Shit.  _ “Because I’m the  _ adult _ . He’s a kid. I’m the one in charge, I’m supposed to be the one looking out for him. I promised his aunt I would keep him safe - promised  _ him _ I would keep him safe, and he believed that fact. He  _ trusted _ me. I was supposed to protect him and he trusted me to do that and I didn’t - I couldn’t -”

Tony breaks off. His chest feels tight, like it’s slowly being pressed down on his ribs. He blinks and the security cam footage flashes by again in a blur of greys and blacks and blood and bodies on the floor. 

He was supposed to stop things like that from happening. Things like  _ this _ \- because, face it, they’re still far from being out of the woods yet - and he didn’t. Peter was kidnapped. Peter was tortured and hurt and manipulated for  _ six months _ and Tony didn’t do anything to stop it and, yeah, maybe Rhodey feels the same but this situation is different. He’s not sure why, but it just is. It’s him, maybe.

Rhodey’s grip tightens. “Don’t you think I thought that too? At MIT? With your dad? With - hell, Tones, with  _ everything? _ I mean, you trusted me, right? To protect you?”

Tony nods. He did. Always will.

“And the things that happened to you were shitty and horrible and I would’ve done anything I could to stop them - still will. But they happened all the same, and over time I’ve realized that it’s just because of how things are. They weren’t my fault - you said so yourself. So why’s it different for you?”

He doesn’t know. The tight coil inside of him is starting to unravel and his eyes are burning and the unbridled happiness and joy has faded just as fast as it came, leaving him with a heavy, hollow feeling in the center of his chest and he just doesn’t know why it’s different. 

“I don’t want it to be,” he mutters, dropping his gaze to Rhodey’s shoulder. He can’t meet his friend’s gaze right now. “I want to believe it - that I did enough, or whatever, but I just - I can’t, Rhodey, I can’t.”

Rhodey’s sigh is sad this time and guilt washes over Tony, heavy and bitter-tasting. “Promise me you’ll try? Like I said, it’s a lot of work, but at least try?”

Tony nods. He feels hollow. Four seconds away from shattering to pieces. His stomach is aching again, a phantom pain emanating from the place that Peter shot him and maybe he’s wrong, maybe things are too messed up to fix; maybe Toomes was right and maybe Peter is dead and maybe he was really six months too late. 

“I’m really tired, Rhodey,” he whispers and his chest caves in a little more. 

Rhodey’s thumb smooths along Tony’s collar bone for a few seconds. “I know, Tones. It’s okay.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to figure it out alone. No more of that stupid lone-gunslinger thing, remember?”

Tony huffs a tiny laugh at that - even if the inside joke doesn’t exactly allude to the best time in their lives - and opens his mouth again - to apologize, to further the point he doesn’t seem to be able to coherently make, maybe to cry - but he’s cut off before he can make a sound by a grunt to his left. There’s the sound of shifting as Peter flips onto his back and exhales loudly, eyes half-open. 

“I’ll give you two a sec,” Rhodey mutters, squeezing Tony’s shoulders one last time before getting up and moving to the front of the jet again. 

Tony turns in his seat, his knees pressing up against the metal bars encircling the gurney, and smiles down at Peter. His hair is sticking up on end and he already looks worlds better, thanks to the fluids tube sticking out of his arm. He gives Tony a long, bleary stare. It’s tinged with a confusion Tony tries not to dwell on too much. Like Rhodey said, it’s going to take a lot of work. Rome wasn’t built in a day, or whatever, and the last time he was looking at the kid it was a very different, much more painful circumstance, so, really, this counts as a win right now.

“Hey, kid,” Tony mutters, reaching out to smooth the pillow by Peter’s head. 

After another pause, the kid’s face cracks into a hesitant smile. “Tony Stark,” he murmurs. “Iron Man.”

Tony exhales around the wash of relief that hits him. “Yeah, that’s me. You remember me?”

Peter blinks slowly. Tony can see the cogs turning in his brain, an expression of deep, almost pained confusion starting to creep slowly over his face and he holds up his other hand, shaking it a little.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs softly. “Don’t sweat it if you don’t.”

Peter frowns. He looks exhausted and a shaky hand - his good one - reaches across to touch his opposite temple. He winces and Tony’s heart twists painfully inside him.

“No more shocks?” the kid murmurs. He sounds scared and confused, blinking up at Tony with wide eyes. 

“No more shocks,” he echoes. Swallows back a lump. “We’re not gonna hurt you, okay? Never.”

Peter just blinks. His eyes are drooping a little and Tony can feel the tension dissipating around him. “Where are we going?” the kid says after a pause.

“Home. New York. Everyone’s waiting for us there. We’ll be there really soon.”

“Everyone?”

“Your friends - MJ and Ned -”

A look of sharp panic crosses Peter’s face, splitting the calm expression in two, and he jerks, attempting to sit up before sinking back town, pain washing over his face. “They - he - they got - something happened? Some - what -”

Tony holds up his hands again. “Hey,” he says softly. “Kid. Look at me.”

Peter does. His eyes are shining. 

“They’re okay. They’re okay now. They got tranquilized - so did you. Wore off in a couple of hours and they’re all good now. Really looking forward to seeing you. So’s your aunt - May?”

Another warm look crosses the kid’s face as he relaxes again, eyes closing. “May,” he echoes, a small smile curling the corners of his lips.

“You remember her?”

“Sort of,” the kid mumbles. Then frowns. “I - I don’t -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony says, cutting him off easily. “We’ll worry about that when you’re feeling better, okay?”

Peter’s face slackens again and his eyes close fully. There’s a couple more minutes of silence where Tony just sits there, one hand back on Peter’s pillow, and watches him, looking for any more signs of distress. After a bit, Peter blinks his eyes back open and looks at Tony.

He looks sad.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he whispers. “Didn’t - didn’t want to - I didn’t know -”

The confusion on Peter’s face is a different kind of painful to see. It’s the type of confusion born out of knowing something’s wrong but not knowing what that something is or how it happened or even why it’s wrong in the first place. It’s born out of having the instinctual feeling and nothing to back it up. 

It makes Peter look years older and years younger at the same time, and it makes Tony torn between wanting to cry and wanting to find Toomes and kill him this time. 

He settles for a healthy medium, carefully smoothing Peter’s hair out of his eyes, moving with more confidence once the kid seems to melt into the touch a little.

“It’s okay,” Tony murmurs back. “It’s okay.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

They touch down minutes after that exchange, by which time Peter is already out for the count. Tony half-wonders, as he and Rhodey maneuver the bed off the quinjet and down the ramp, headed towards the Tower medbay, when the last time the kid got a decent, non-disrupted sleep was. He half-wonders if they even let the kid sleep. Then his stomach starts to feel like it’s hardening inside of him, so he stops wondering anything and focuses on carefully steering Peter through the living room.

Helen is already there when they arrive. She’s armed with a clipboard and a stethoscope and waves Peter into the corner of the room without blinking before turning to him, tapping a pen on the corner of her board. 

“Natasha sent over initial medical reports from the quinjet trip,” she says without preamble. “It’s very preliminary stuff and specific diagnostics and subsequent procedures will change after I get a better look at him, but right now we’re looking at sustained repeated damage to areas around his ribs, neck, legs and chest, potential dehydration and hypothermia, repeated head and brain trauma, and damage to the left side of his face and arm.”

Tony nods. “Sounds - fixable?”

She nods in return, a brief but shockingly reassuring smile crossing her lips. “Very fixable. Physically speaking, considering all he’s been through in the past six months, he’s in excellent condition. Anything that did happen to him seems to have healed -”

“Do we know?” Tony interjects, kind of wishing he hadn’t asked the question. The answer probably won’t make him feel very good. “What happened to him, I mean?”

She frowns, tapping with more vigor. “Not off the bat, no. Again, more examination might tell and, from what I’ve heard, Steve and Natasha have complied footage of what’s - been done to him, essentially. After looking at that -”

“You don’t have to,” Tony cuts in again. “I - it’s - bad, apparently. Really bad.”

Another smile crosses Helen’s face as her gaze flicks over to the sleeping figure of Peter, now encircled by a medical team, Rhodey and Bucky watching silently from a few feet away. It’s sadder than the last one. “I’ve seen worse.”

Tony swallows, then nods. “What can I do?”

“Get some rest,” she says without missing a beat. “He’ll be monitored 24/7 - I’ll even come get you when he wakes up, but we’re going to keep him sedated for the first few days. The main cause for concern is this electrical wire - not only does it retain the potential to trigger him back into the more aggressive version of himself, but the surgery was -  _ horrifically _ botched and it’s likely causing him a lot of pain right now. We want to get that out as soon as possible.”

“They put it in him without anesthetics,” Tony blurts. He figures if he says it fast enough, he won’t be able to comprehend the full weight of what that means and how much pain that probably put the kid through. Not probably. Definitely. Definitely put the kid through - ad that makes him want to kill Toomes a  _ hundred _ times over. “Open surgery.”

Something flashes across Helen’s face. He can see a muscle work briefly in her jaw before she relaxes. “Well, we don’t do that there.”

“I wasn’t -”

“I know,” she says, resting a hand on his forearm. “I know.” A pause. Then, “Please, get some rest, Tony. Don’t act like the past week hasn’t been hell for you too. Even with the skin graft, your stomach was far from the conditions required to go running around all of America looking for that man, and the fight with Peter -”

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. He is, really. Nothing hurts that much right now - hasn’t since that brief slip up on the quinjet with Rhodey. He feels fine. Peter is back; Peter is going to be okay, so he is, by default, going to be okay too. “Seriously. Plus, I’ve got a million and one things to do right now - gotta contact the kid’s aunt and his friends and probably start damage control and fend off our esteemed Secretary of State and that’s not to mention -”

“Tony!”

Pepper. Pepper. 

He spins in time with heels clacking on tiled floor and has half a second to process what’s going on before a bundle of what looks like one of Tony’s MIT shirts and auburn hair slams into him and his face is pressed against the shoulder of Pepper Potts. 

He smiles into the fabric of her - or his, really - shirt. She smells like cherry blossoms and cinnamon and printer ink and he sort of wants to stay like this forever, with her hands in his hair and on his back and her face pressed into the side of his neck and her breath on his skin. 

Pepper is alive. Peter is alive. Everyone is alive. They won. 

What a fucking world.  

“Hi,” he mumbles into her shoulder. “Hi. I’m okay.”

She just squeezes him back harder. He can feel her hands shaking as they smooth up and down his back and run through his hair. She doesn’t speak for a while, and Tony doesn’t ask her to. It’s like this a lot after missions, all silent embraces and shaking hands and each of them reveling in the fact that the other is alive and things are going to be okay again. He knows the drill - and hates that she does too, but Peter is alive and they’ve won and he already had his moment of slipping on the quinjet; Peter is alive and okay now and Tony, by default, has to be okay too he aye, as alive and okay as Peter is, he still needs help. He still needs to recover. 

And Tony’s fine. He’s okay. Things are okay - Pepper, for instance, is okay. She’s warm and breathing in his arms, hands still running up and down his back, and already that makes the world a billion times brighter. He isn’t in pain. He’s okay. 

Okay, he  _ is _ in pain, and with each passing moment they stand here, silent and still, he’s starting to realize it more and more. Talking to Helen while standing in the same place is one thing - at least then his thoughts were centered around helping Peter and nothing else, leaving next to no room for focusing on anything else. Now, he, despite his best intentions, isn’t hyper focused on the boy lying in the hospital bed, which is giving him ample room to realize how much everything fucking hurts right now. 

“Okay,” Tony mutters as a stab of pain shoots through him, starting at the center of his stomach and ending in a firework that echoes around his head. He opens his eyes and the floor beneath him spins a little. He can feel his knees start to buckle. “I gotta - sit -”

“Shit,” Pepper mumbles. She unwraps her arms from around him and gently guides him to a nearby seat. Gently, she’s always so gentle, and Tony has never deserved it - he lost Peter; how on earth can he deserve anything remotely close to gentleness now? 

But Peter's back. He’s in a hospital bed not twenty feet from Tony - he can even see him from where he sits, mop of brown curls swimming amongst the bone-white blankets and pillows - and he’s back and he’s safe so nothing tony’s feeling right now, none of the panicky clawing sensation in his chest or the heavy tiredness mingled with guilt that seems intent on getting him down on the floor or the simple, aching sadness makes sense. 

Nothing makes sense. Tony blinks. Peter was dead. Peter shot him. Peter beat him up. Peter wanted to kill him. Peter wasn’t - and maybe still isn’t - Peter anymore. 

He swallows. His throat feels tight. 

Nothing makes sense. 

“Tony,” Pepper says softly. She’s crouching in front of him, knees pressed against his shins, hands carefully resting on his thighs. “Tony?”

He focuses on her, herhands, her touch, her face, her eyes. She’s alive. They’re all alive. He won. 

_ He broke so easily, you know.  _

Peter is okay. 

_ You should’ve heard him scream.  _

“I want to see the footage,” he hears himself say. Pepper’s face swims in and out of view. “Of what they did to him. All of it. I want to see it.”

Pepper sighs. “Not happening, Tony. You’re in no condition -”

“I’m fine,” he repeats, half-wondering why everyone seems to be under the impression that he isn’t - Rhodey, Helen, and now Pepper. Then he remembers that he probably would’ve collapsed if it hadn’t been for Pepper and he hasn’t eaten in three days and Peter is back but a part of Tony feels like that doesn’t even matter because he really was six months too late, after all. 

“You’re not,” she says simply. “And that’s okay.”

And that’s all it takes. 

Something inside him starts to unwind slowly, the coil in his chest involuntarily flattening our and the next breath he takes sounds suspiciously like a sob. 

_ Stark men are made of iron. Stark men do not cry. You want something to cry about, Anthony? I’ll fucking give you something to cry about, you - _

“I don’t know,” Tony says. His voice is shaking. “He’s back and he’s okay - I mean, fucking  _ look _ at him, out like a light, has Helen Cho looking after him - and I just - I don’t know -”

Tony swallows. His eyes are burning. 

“I - Toomes said I was six months too late. That it didn’t matter that I came when I did because everything that happened already happened, you know? Peter already went through everything he did and me - fucking -  _ saving _ him, or whatever doesn’t even  _ matter _ now because he’s still going to have been though all that and I still  _ didn’t stop it, _ I didn’t do  _ anything _ , Pep, I didn’t do anything right and I don’t know what to do now and he’s - I don’t know what to do and I’m so  _ tired _ -”

“Oh, Tony.” Pepper’s voice is sad, so, so sad. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Tony repeats. “I - he’s okay and I have to be okay so I can help him get better but I don’t know - I can’t - I’m so tired, Pepper, I’m so tired.”

He sounds like a kid. Like a stupid fucking  _ kid _ and, honestly, it fits the bill because he feels just like a kid too, confused mixed with a healthy amount of hopeless and just bone-shatteringly tired. 

“C’mon,” Pepper says, standing suddenly. She extends a half for half a second before seemingly scrapping that plan and just hoisting him to his feet. “Bedtime.”

Panic shoots through him, dull and aching. He can’t leave. He has work to do - he still has to call May and Ned and MJ and he can’t leave because Toomes could come back at the drop of a hat and Tony has to be here if that happens, he has to protect Peter again. He can’t lose him again. 

“I can’t,” he says, not resisting Pepper’s grip as much as he’d like to. His vision is spinning too much for that, too much to do anything but shake his head as Pepper slowly propels him out of the medbay and down the hall. “What if - Pep, I can't leave, I gotta -”

“It’s okay,” she says as they move down the hallway and take a right. “It’s okay,” she says as they turn another corner and she opens a door, carefully guiding him inside. It’s their bedroom. The smell of cherry blossoms fills his nose and he almost - almost - smiles. 

“It’s okay,” Pepper says as she carefully guides him to the bed, making sure he’s laying down before she turns to flick off the lights. “It’s okay,” she says as she crawls into bed next to him, Tony fitting easily against her side like they’ve done this a thousand times, which they have - half of those in the past six months alone. On some faraway scale, Tony realizes how fucking  _ unfair _ that is for her, that she has to deal with him like this over and  _ over _ again, but the he remembers that Peter is seventeen years old and has been through unspeakable,  _ horrific _ things these past months, so nothing, really, is fair. 

His hand finds hers and he squeezes it. She squeezes his back. 

“He shot me,” Tony whispers into the darkness, because he doesn’t know what else to say, because, in certain positions, it almost feels like the bullet is still in there. “He wanted to kill me.”

Pepper’s grip on him tightens. It’s like she’s trying to hold him together physically, keep all the pieces of him in line until he’s awake enough to do it himself. “Baby, he loves you. He  _ loves _ you.”

Tony just shakes his head. He’s so tired. “I failed him,” he whispers. It sounds like a croak. 

“You saved him,” Pepper whispers to the top of his head. She presses a kiss there. “He’s okay. He’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. We’re all going to be okay now.”

Tony closes his eyes. The bed is warm. Pepper is breathing, the actions rolling through him like waves, like calming bouts of motion that somehow keep him tied down to the bed and keep his own breathing level - or level enough. She is alive. 

Peter is okay and not okay at the same time. He is okay in the sense that he, too, is alive. Alive and home and being looked after by people infinitely more capable than Tony ever will be. And he is also not okay in the sense that he has been hurt and brainwashed and cut open and forced to kill people and a laundry list of other equally horrific things that make Tony feel like the walls of his brain are caving in. 

But Peter will be okay. He  _ will _ be. Tony can work with that. 

And, with that, he relaxes a little. Not much, but enough so that slowly, silently, with Pepper’s arms around him and her breathing in time with his and her lips pressing onto his face and cheeks and bridge of his nose and the top of his head, Tony can finally fall asleep. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wooo...this got sad real quick whoops! remember tony has been Thru some stuff too and has given himself like 6.3 seconds to proves it bc he is Dumb so ya...also there’s a weird amt of illusions to tony’s childhood here for literally no reason idk where ANY of that cake from! yeehaw also sry he and peter don’t interact much here...they will interact more next chap! also more peter pov! okay! thank you for reading <33


	28. silence

He comes to to a wash of bright lights, even brighter white bed sheets, and the lingering smell of antiseptic.

He blinks once. Then again. The world, the room around him starts to solidify after a few more blinks, the images of the parts of the bed he can see and the overhead lights starting to sharpen and come into view.

He’s laying down. The lights above him are swinging slightly, and the sheets beneath his fingers are soft. Everything is calm and quiet and still, like he’s submerged himself in a pool and is watching life play out around him with the water pressing against his eardrums, muffling everything. 

He doesn’t want to move. Something inside him feels right and tense, like he’s on the verge of shattering, and he really doesn’t want to break the comforting silence by somehow making it worse by trying to sit up. 

He can’t remember why it feels that way, but that’s normal. Comforting, too, like the silence. But tinged with a little - something. Bitterness, maybe. Anger. Sadness. Who knows? Certainly not him. 

Certainly not _Peter._

The name feels more foreign than ever. He’s never felt further away from Peter Parker than he does now, laying silently in the bed, fingers carefully curling around the blankets on top of him. There had been a brief - _moment_. A moment where the persistent something had finally solidified into a thing he could grab onto, mold his form around until he became it. He can’t remember when - something with a bedroom and rice and people whose faces swim in and out of clarity as he tries to remember them - but there had been a moment when he and Peter Parker had stopped feeling like two different things. 

Maybe. Maybe he had dreamed it. Maybe he’d dreamed it all. 

He closes his eyes again, the glare of the lights starting to burn the backs of his eyes a little. Suddenly the silence is too loud, too thick, too heavy on his eardrums. His body feels like it’s about to implode, shrink in on itself until he’s sucked out of the very fabric of the universe. He is tiny, infinitesimal. He doesn’t understand anything. He doesn’t know who he is or where he is or why he’s here or what’s happened. There are no more voices in the back of his head, no more snarling or protesting or vicious demands that he take up whatever weapon he can find and fight his way out of whatever mess he’s in now. 

It’s just silent. 

Somehow, that’s almost worse. 

 

* * *

* * *

The next time he wakes up, he’s not alone. 

A crowd of people are slowly milling around him, murmuring voices buzzing somewhere at the base of his skull like a swarm of bees. The blankets are still soft under his fingers. The lights are still bright. 

Everything, despite the gentle shuffling sounds and talking, is still too quiet, and it makes him want to scream. 

He settles for shifting a little to let the people around him know that he’s here, he’s awake, he can see what’s going on. 

Maybe he should be afraid. Something about this feels familiar - the bed, the noises, the talking, the faint flashes of blue and white clothes and the metal of what looks like surgical tools on the edges of his vision. He’s done this before. It had been darker and colder and no one was bothering to be quiet, but he had done all this before. 

They had put something into his arm. They had cut it open and hadn’t stopped until they finished, no matter how hard he screamed and begged and cried and thrashed. 

The breath in his body goes rock-solid all of a sudden, like the very oxygen in his lungs has turned to lead. Everything is foggy and hazy and it’s like looking at the images through a television screen, but he can remember with enough clarity to know that he is not going to let them do something like that to him ever again. 

Never.  _ Never _ . 

Someone stops next to him, hovering a few feet above him and, for a second, all he can see is cold smiles and dangling wires and silver hair and a scarred, contorted face, and he flinches back, hard, head smacking against the side of the bed a little. 

He can’t do this again. He can’t let them do this again. 

“Please,” he says, voice raspy and hoarse. The figure above him shifts in and out of view. His breath feels stuck somewhere in the bottom of his lungs. “Please don’t hurt me.”

The words sound pathetic when the exit his mouth, full of terror and begging and an almost childish shakiness, but no outside voice rises up to shame him for it, to call him weak or stupid. The space that it would normally fill with its encouragement to fight back and it’s outright mockings of whatever he’s saying leaves him feeling hollow and empty, like something’s been wrenched out of him, and he hates it so much. 

“Please,” he mutters again. 

The face above him sharpens into view a little. She’s wearing blue and white scrubs with gloves to match. A strip of fabric is hanging from around her neck, and her face is totally calm and impassive. 

Somehow, it scares him more. He flinches again as she crouches down next to him so that their faces are almost level. 

“Hi, Peter,” she says softly and something inside him crumples up at the usage of that name. He wants to tell her that it’s not him, that he’s been living in a borrowed body, that whatever notions she may have about Peter Parker don’t apply to him because he can remember enough about the bedroom he snuck into to know what Peter Parker is good, and he can remember enough about the things that he’s done - foggy and unclear and unreal as the memories may feel - to know that he is not. 

Instead, he just makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. 

The woman smiles a little. “My name is Helen Cho. I’m a doctor. I’m here to get you all fixed up, okay?”

He shakes his head. Her name feels familiar, but thinking about it makes him ache all the way to the center of his chest, so he doesn’t. “Please don’t hurt me,” is all he says. 

Something imperceptible crosses over her face as she folds her gloved hands on top of one another, resting against the metal bar surrounding his bed. “We’re not going to hurt you, Peter, okay? What we’re going to do is take out an electrical wire that’s been put in your body.”

She gestures to his arm. He doesn’t look. He doesn’t want to see it. 

“We think it’s causing you a lot of pain. You’re on some medication right now, so you likely can’t feel it, but all the same, we want you to be as comfortable and as safe as possible, and we really think that wire isn’t helping with that. We need to perform surgery to extract it, essentially. We’ve received permission from your parental guardian to operate, but I’d like to hear confirmation from you before we do anything, yeah?”

Confirmation. They want to ask. They don’t want to hurt him. 

“Are you comfortable with us operating on you, Peter? If not, that’s completely fine. We just want to hear what you have to say.”

He blinks, and his whole left arm feels cold. If he closes his eyes for too long, he’s there again, with hands wrapping all over his body and the metal digging into his skin and the scalpel carefully tracing a line down the inside of his forearm, and it makes him want to cry. 

He had felt it. He had felt everything. 

“Am I -” he tries, before breaking off to swallow. “Am I going to be awake?”

The thing flickers across Helen Cho’s face again. “Not at all. You’d be completely sedated, Peter. You wouldn’t feel a thing.”

“Promise?”

His voice shakes a little. His eyes are burning again - the light is too bright. He can feel everything and he doesn’t want to. 

He wants to see Tony Stark. He wants to apologize. He wants to see the people from the bedroom whose names he can’t fucking remember, and he wants to apologize to them, too. 

He wants to forget everything. And he wants to remember it all, too. 

“Promise.” There’s not a shadow of uncertainty in Helen Cho’s voice. “I promise.”

And, mostly because his arm hurts and the lights are too bright and he really just wants to go back to sleep, he nods, slowly, once. “Okay,” he says. “You can do it.”

 

* * *

* * *

The next days pass by without him taking in much. 

He’s out for most of it - sedated. The first time he wakes up, the room around him is seemingly empty, except for a fe other doctors and  Helen Cho, who presses a hand to his forehead and says something he doesn’t understand in a voice that is very soft and very nice to hear. 

The next time he wakes up, his arm is laying across his chest, the whole thing obscured with off-whit gauze and bandages. The left side of his face is pricking a little, ad the vague shadows of what he thinks might be more bandages crowd the edges of his vision. 

There’s more people in the room, too. Their faces pass by him without him being able to react. Most of them he doesn’t recognize. Some, he does, like the mop of brown, spiky hair and tinted glasses and sharp, slightly overgrown goatee that he knows is Tony Stark. Like the overpowering smell of lemons and vanilla that comes from one woman seated at his right. Her hair is light brown and falls in a curtain across one side of her face. Her glasses are similar to Tony Stark’s, except they’re rounder and clearer and smaller. Her name flashes through his mind and sticks - May. 

He knows her. He knows her. 

At some point she starts crying, and then he’s crying, and then he's reaching out for her only for his hand to close around empty space and air. 

Then he falls asleep again, and it’s almost a relief. 

 

* * *

* * *

The next time he wakes up, it’s dark. 

The lights above him at off. The buzz of conversation and shuffling of feet that he’s grown accustomed to over the past few days or weeks or however long he’s been lying here has been replaced by the faint sound of rain on windowpanes and beeping from machinery somewhere out of his line of sight. 

There’s a tube coming from his nose. He can feel the plastic brushing against his cheek and chest. His left arm has been moved back to his side, fingers curling around the blankets a little. 

The silence is so loud he feels like he’s going deaf, so he forces himself to listen to the sounds around him, to the steady beep-beep of a monitor, to the sound of the rain thudding rhythmically against the glass, to the sound of the wind roaring outside.

At some point, the familiar hum of voices picks back up again. Footsteps sound around the room, softer but growing louder by the second, before they stop, somewhere near his bed. 

“How is he?” says someone after a pause. It’s a woman’s voice, and the name comes faster than he can think about it - May. It’s May speaking. 

His chest feels right all of a sudden. He wants to call out to her, to grab onto her hand like he’s a five year old kid who’s been lost at a supermarket for ten minutes, and he’s not sure what’s worse - the fact that he can’t even open his mouth, much less speak, or the fact that he’s not even see why he wants her to be near him so badly. 

“Okay,” says the second voice, deeper, rougher, unsteady with emotion. Tony Stark’s. “Stable, at least.”

“Helen said the surgery went well. They were able to remove all of it.”

“Yeah.” Tony Stark sounds tired. So does May. His fault. “Yeah. He’s going to be okay.”

“Do you think” He can hear May sucking in a breath as she breaks off. “Do you think he - I mean - you know?”

“Remembers us?”

There’s something about the flat note of defeat in the man’s voice that makes him feel like his lungs have disappeared entirely. He wants to remember - he wants to remember so bad; it’s all he’s wanted to do for about as long as he’s aware of - remember. Out the pieces back together, look these

people in the face and be able to explain any of the feelings they make him feel. He wants to be Peter Parker. He wants to be the same good kid everyone keeps telling him about. And it’s not that he doesn’t love May or Tony or the people in the bedroom - he  _ does _ , he does and that’s  _ his _ ; they’re  _ his _ feelings and he understands them and he believes in them - but he wants to know why he does. He wants the full picture, not just hazy glimpses of it. 

He doesn’t want them to be sad. He wants May and Tony to be anything but sad. He knows they don’t deserve it. He knows that with more clarity than he knows anything. 

“Yeah,” May says slowly. 

“I don’t know. I want to say yes.”

_ I do. I do but I  _ don’t _ but I  _ will _ , I want to and I promise I will - _

“But -”

“Yeah.”

“He’ll come back.” May’s voice is suddenly confident. “He’s been through so much; he’ll survive this, too. He’s still our kid. He’ll come back to us.”

“He’s here now.”

“He’s here now. We just gotta give him time, that’s all. Time and rest and safety. That’s all he needs.”

And there’s something strangely comforting about her words. He believes them instantly, hangs off every one of them like he’s been doing it his whole life, like he trusts her with his said life in question, and he knows he does. This is May - Aunt May. This is May Parker and he has known her for as long as he should be able to remember. She has always been there. She has made every mess he’s been in better just by being there with him. 

She is May Parker and he will remember if only for her, if only so she can sound happy and carefree and the confidence in her voice can sound real, because if there is anything he knows, it is that she deserves to be happy. She is May Parker and he knows her and loves her and wants to make her happy because the world makes more sense when she is. 

When they both are. 

So he closes his eyes again, and starts making a list. A list of things he knows, a list of things he’s been told that are true, a list of things to hold onto, to keep the silence at bay, to keep the idea of Peter Parker from slipping between his fingers. 

_ One: My name is Peter Parker.  _

_ Two: My aunt’s name is May.  _

_ Three: May has always been there for me.  _

_ Four: I know Tony Stark. He has also always been there for me.  _

_ Five: May and Tony are good. May and Tony deserve to be happy.  _

_ Six: I love May and Tony. I have always loved them. I always will.  _

 

* * *

* * *

The next time he wakes up, the hum of chatter is back, and he can feel himself cracking a grin of relief without even thinking about it. 

“There’s that smile.”

The voice sounds suddenly from beside him and he starts a little, jerking around as much as he can within the confines of his bed to see the figure sitting next to him in one of the chairs lining the walls. 

_ May.  _

His smile widens unconsciously. She’s dressed in grey jeans and a striped black and white top. Her glasses are gone and her hair has been pulled back into a bun. 

She looks tired, but happy. 

“Hi,” he says softly. His voice feels hoarse and shaky with lack of use. He wonders when the last time he talks for longer that six seconds was. Probably in the bedroom with - with -

_ Ned _ . Ned and -  _ MJ _ . 

He smiles again.  _ Add that to the list.  _

“How’re you feeling, baby?” May murmurs, leaning forward a little so her elbows press against her knees. “You look a lot better”

“I feel okay,” he says after a pause. He does, really. His arm doesn’t hurt as much and he’s more in the sleepy category, not the vicious, clawing exhaustion he vaguely remembers from the first few days spent here.

She nods, expression something he doesn’t quite understand. Her hand half-reaches our, like she wants to touch him but isn’t sure if she can or should, before retracting slightly. Before she can fully rest it back on her legs, he shoots his own hand out - thankful she’s sitting on his right side - and grabs hers. Their fingers lace together without him having to think about it, like they’ve done this a million times. 

Maybe they have. They have. He knows this. It’s number three on the list - she’s always been here. Holding him. Keeping him tied down to the ground. 

“It’s been a really long time, sweetie,” she murmurs after a while. Her voice is shaky. 

“How long?”

Another pause. “You disappeared on the 17th October. It’s now - god, the 15th of July? 16th? Something like that.”

“I’ve been missing for nine months?”

May sighs, long and heavy. “Yeah. Nine months, give or take.”

He leans back, pressing his head into the pillow. Nine months. Three quarters of a year. He’s been gone for three quarters of a year. Peter Parker has been presumed dead for three quarters of a year.  

“I’m sorry,” he mutters to the ceiling, to the still-swinging lights.  He doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t know if there  _ is _ anything else to say. 

“Peter, honey, it wasn’t your fault. You - none of this is your fault, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I was a” He frowns. “I was - I wasn’t paying attention, I was - messing - around - and then they - if I had - I wasn’t paying attention when they came and I -”

Something huge and vast has started to rise up in the back is his head, the shadow it casts sending his whole brain into darkness. He doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know what he’s saying or how he knows but he does - he can remember bits and pieces, memories falling down from the thing in the back of his head. It had been cold. Raining the night before - there were puddles everywhere. It had been cold and wet and he had been standing on a balcony drinking coffee and something had fallen - a wallet, his wallet - and he had jumped down to grab it and then they had cane and he hadn’t been able to fight, couldn’t move or scream or call for help or do anything and they had come and he has been powerless and it’s because of that that he’s here and May is sad and he just didn’t -

“Peter?  _ Peter.” _

Mays calm voice sounds from somewhere beside him again and he jerks himself out of his thoughts, gasping a little. The thing in the back of his head rereads. He’s here. He’s safe. No one’s coming. He’s safe. 

“Helen said this kind of stuff would happen. Bits would start to come back - and not the good ones - okay. Don’t - don’t think too much about it, honey, okay? You don’t have to remember right now. It’s okay to just - be here. That’s all we want. 

He nods, because he doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know how to put the vast and terrifying feeling of something into a sentence she’ll understand when he doesn’t even understand it himself. Also, he’s tired. 

He’s tired a lot nowadays. 

“I love you,” he murmurs as the edges of his vision start to go black. He wants her to hear it. It’s been nine months and he hasn’t spoken to her once and the fundamental aspects of him know that that is so wrong. They know he has missed her, and he has. Even five minutes with her have left him feeling like the tiny, fractional pieces of himself that had come loose during everything have started to realign, come back together again. 

If he says nothing else to her again, he wants her to know he loves her. Because he does. It’s number six. It’s the most important one on the list. 

He passes out before he can hear her response. 

 

* * *

* * *

 

The next time he wakes up, Tony is sitting where May was. 

More like sleeping. He watches as the man’s head slumps down a little, chin bumping against his chest as his heavy breathing fills the room. 

He knows Tony does not sleep much. He remembers this. Tony does not like sleeping because he has nightmares. He does not know what the nightmares are about - he’s not sure if Tony never told him or if he just can’t remember; he has a feeling it’s the latter - but he knows they are bad and they keep Tony from sleeping for days and days, sometimes. 

Tony must be exhausted if he is sleeping now, then, and he knows it’s because of him. He hates that a lot more than he’s able to explain. 

He lays there, arms folded across his chest, and watches the man sleep. Maybe it’s weird - a part of him confirms this;  _ yep, this is definitely a weird thing to do _ \- but it’s oddly comforting in a way, too. The man’s face is peaceful, lack of glasses revealing a calm, almost content expression that makes  _ him _ feel calm and content, too. 

He wishes Tony could look like that forever. He knows the man deserves it. 

“I love you,” he says after a while. It’s the same thing with May - they  _ need _ to know he feels that. He needs them to know that more than he needs them to know anything else on earth. 

He hurt Tony. He can’t remember how, exactly. There was a gun the first time, and too much blood. The second time had been in the white-washed cell with the small bed and the chairs and tables. His knuckles had been bruised and bloody by the time he had walked out of there, and Tony hadn’t been moving. 

He had hurt Tony past the level of him disappearing for nine months. He had used his hands, his body, to try and kill Tony. He had done that. He had done that, he could remember doing that, remember the heady smell of iron and the cracking noise and the sun and concrete and blood and linoleum and broken tables and shaking hands opening the door and he could remember it all; he did that and he  _ remembers _ it and he -

“I love you,” he says again, cutting through his own thoughts. The distorted pieces of memory disappear around him as he speaks, vanishing until all that’s left is him and Tony and the faint sound of snores that fill the room. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda just a filler chap wooo....proper coherent reunions happening Soon...peter and co finally abt to catch their well deserved break....!!!


	29. happy

Peter spends the next week or so in a relatively catatonic state.

It’s not something Tony should be worrying about apparently - at least according to Helen. She and her team of doctors have the kid on a list of drugs so long it almost rivals Tony’s own medications, and some of them are going to conk him out - whether by design or as a side effect. Since they’re still within the period of Peter not having fully shaken off the whole Number Three - or at least having the potential to slip back into that if something sets him off - it’s for the best to keep him relatively sedated, and Tony can’t help but agree. The other component for the kid’s suddenly continuous sleeping is the fact that, also according to Helen, he’s barely slept over the past nine months. Sure, he’s been knocked unconscious enough times for him to probably have severe brain damage if he wasn’t basically a supersoldier at this point, but Helen said she could count the times he’d probably voluntarily fallen asleep on two hands - and most of them were likely during his sojourn in the holding cell. Thinking about that makes Tony feel very unwell, so he doesn’t. Despite the overwhelming quantity of horrific information Helen and her team continue to uncover each day about Peter’s time in captivity - such as the fact that he has lacerations in his lungs consistent with over exposure to water for prolonged periods of time - waterboarding - or the fact that parts of his bones seem to have been repeatedly broken in the exact same place, suggesting the restraints he held down were likely designed to hurt him, or the fact that, you know, he had an electrical wire shoved in his arm all while being totally conscious - Tony’s able to see the kid slowly start to return to normal.

Peter starts remembering things almost as soon as he wakes up from the preliminary surgery, but it’s not until about a week into his stay at the medbay that huge chunks start coming back to him. One day, Tony’s walking into the room to sit with Peter of a few hours - a new part of his daily routine that makes him feel a lot of conflicting emotions he doesn’t really want to deal with - when the kid’s babble slams into him the second he sets foot into the medbay. Peter rambles on about college applications and SATs and _do you think MIT will still accept me even though I’ve missed, like, a billion years of school, Mr. Stark?_ and Tony has to sit down before relief actually makes him pass out. Slowly but surely, the kid starts - remembering. When he’s awake, he transforms from the silent, stony-faced kid Tony had become frustratingly well-acquainted with in the holding cell to nearly a carbon copy of his former self - excitable and energetic and talkative and a little shit and the sweetest person Tony thinks he’s ever come into contact with.

“It’s a miracle,” Helen tells him one day after she finishes another check-in session with Peter. “I - the regenerative abilities his brain has are _nothing_ like I’ve seen before. Even with Mr. Barnes’s modified genes, his regeneration process took years to do what Peter’s brain is doing in _weeks_. I’m - it’s just a miracle.”

Which, of course, makes pretty much total sense to tony, because in his eyes, Peter himself is nothing short of a miracle. This whole fucking _situation_ is nothing short of a miracle and, gradually, even Tony manages to shake off the lingering feeling that something is going to go horribly wrong and ruin everything they’ve managed to reconstruct and just enjoy having his kid back and embrace said miracle.

But, with remembering the good things also comes remembering the bad and, slowly but surely, that becomes a new part of Tony’s daily reality he - and everyone else, really - have to cope with. Helen had mentioned it to him about six and a half billion times before Peter started walking up properly - the fact that there was no conceivable way Peter would walk out of this situation without having at least the barest hints of trauma - but Tony had been pretty content to ignore it. He had been up to his neck in downsides and bad shit for the past nine months. He was ready to have a breath of fresh air - _Peter_ , at the very least, deserved it.

That was a mistake. Turns out, Tony’s great at making those. 

The first time the kid has a nightmare, Tony’s off duty, so by the time he’s woken up by Pepper’s muttered “something's wrong with Peter” and managed to fling himself down three flights of stairs in ten seconds flat, Peter’s already woken himself up from it. The kid stares at him like he can’t believe Tony’s real, eyes shining out of the darkness of the medbay like two twin flashlights, chest heaving. One of his hands is wrapped around May’s, squeezing hard enough for it to definitely hurt her, while the other is clenched into a fist in his lap, knuckles white.

He doesn’t speak as Tony kneels down next to him, but he does flinch back when Tony tries to brush some stray hairs out of his eyes.

“Okay,” Tony says slowly, dropping his hand and gripping onto the barrier around Peter’s bed. “You’re okay.”

The kid stays silent, eyes wide and unblinking, shoulders rising and falling. For a second, Tony’s convinced Peter’s flipped back into Number Three and he’s about to go and get Helen, but then the kid visibly relaxes, shoulders slumping, tension flooding out of his face only to be replaced by an expression of indescribable exhaustion that rips Tony’s heart out of his chest and smashes it on the floor in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers, his voice cracking. He drops May’s hand and stares at the obvious finger marks he’s left, eyes widening again. “I - I’m so sorry -”

“Hey, baby,” May murmurs, leaning down next to Tony and taking Peter’s hand again. “It’s okay. You - you’re okay.”

Peter just swallows. A strip of light floods into the room through a crack in the blinds, falling across Peter’s eyes and illuminating the dark shadows under them that even sleeping for nearly three weeks straight can’t get rid of, and Tony’s heart breaks all over again.

“I’m sorry. I -” Peter shakes his head, jaw tightening again. “I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Pete,” Tony murmurs, carefully placing a hand on the kid’s knee and swiping his thumb up and down when Peter doesn’t flinch back this time. “‘S just a bad dream, that's all.”

Peter nods. He doesn’t look convinced and, honestly, Tony doesn’t even come close to blaming him. He’s heard the _just a bad dream_ a billion and one times from what feels like just as many people and knows that it never really starts taking an effect. He still has nightmares about the Humvee attack in Afghanistan or Charlie Spencer or Bucky’s arm flying across the room as Tony’s chest unibeam fires and the notion of _it’s just a bad dream_ never felt that comforting when he knew, in the back of his head, that all the things he was dreaming about were real and, more to the point, _his fault._

Which, of course, doesn’t play out the same way from Peter at all because Peter has been _brainwashed_ for the past _nine months_ whereas _Tony_ was just a piece of shit, but he doesn’t really know how to put that into words, so he just rocks back on his heels a little and squeezes Peter’s knee. He and May sit there, shoulder to shoulder, as Peter takes a few more deep breaths in and out before laying back down, slowly shifting onto his side and closing his eyes. 

He doesn’t go back to sleep, though. Tony can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, can hear the almost imperceptible way the boy’s breath hitches at every outside noise, can see the way his hands tighten and relax around fistfuls of his blanket, like Peter’s trying to tie himself back down to earth, or to keep everything from disappearing out from underneath him. 

Tony leans forward and presses his forehead to the side of the bed. Beside him, he can hear May sigh. 

And somehow he knows that this is just the beginning.  

 

* * *

* * *

 

He’s completely right, of course. Soon Peter’s jumping from having them sporadically throughout the course of the week of having one every time he closes his eyes. Sometimes Peter will wake up screaming and thrashing, chest heaving like he’d just ran a marathon - _or had his head submerged in a bucket of water_ , Tony thinks, actively trying not to throw up. Sometimes he’d just jerk awake, breath already steady and controlled, an action totally not matched by the horrified look on the kid’s face or the way his jaw clenched so hard Tony was half-worried he was going to bite off his tongue. And Tony knew - knew from each time he spent sitting with the kid after a nightmare, trying his best to calm him down and coax him back to bed - that Peter never went to sleep after he had one. He’d lie awake, totally motionless, barely breathing with his eyes shut and his whole body tensed up, like he was constantly bracing for an attack that Tony didn’t know how to make him understand _would never come again._

It’s ironic, in a way, because if there’s anything Tony understand, it’s _this_. It’s this lingering fear after coming home that clings to you and tells you that, sure, you’re home, but you’re never point to be safe like you were before. It’s the looming thought that everything happened once, so there’s absolutely nothing to say it can’t happen again. It’s the notion that you can’t ever really relax because each time your guard drops, you leave a gaping window of opportunity for faceless men to come pouring in, taking you by the collar of your shirt and slamming your head into a vat of ice-water and holding it there, or tying you to a chair and beating you senseless, waving guns in your face and grinning, or whatever Peter thinks will happen to him. Tony understands it all - he’s lived it all - and he doesn’t know how to help. He doesn’t know how to make it better. He was the one who got Peter into this mess and he doesn’t even know how to get the kid out of it. 

_Go figure._

It’s not just the nightmares that scare Tony, though. It’s all the little things that come with them - Peter closing himself off, shutting Tony and May out, putting up walls that Tony didn’t even know existed between him and everyone else. It’s the way the kid deflects every one of Tony’s offers of help or words of comfort with a tight expression on his face that practically screams _I don’t deserve this_ at Tony. it’s the way the kid flinches whenever loud noises sound or disappears into the bathroom for literal hours on end or apologizes a hundred times over for the smallest of things or some days won’t look anyone in the eye or come within ten feet of them.

It’s the fact that, despite the fact that Peter comes back more and more with every single good day he has, they are still so far from out of the woods, and sometimes it feels like Peter’s almost scared to leave. Like the trees and the bushes and the animals crawling around are terrifying to him, but they’re the only source of continuinity he’s known for the past nine months - which is, of course, entirely fucking true - and a part of him just isn’t able to surrender all that.

“Pete,” Tony says softly after a particularly bad one. It’s the middle of the day and finally, after nearly half an hour of cajoling and flat-out bribery, Tony has managed to drag the kid away from the TV at the end of the room where he had been _catching up on all the Netflix shows he’d missed, Mr. Stark, it’s really important_ and get him into bed, only to have him wake up not thirsty minutes later, screaming and thrashing. “Do you ever want to talk about your dreams? With - with me? With May? With Helen - anyone?”

His palm is pressed on the center of Peter’s back, slowly running up and down the groove of his spine. Even after several weeks of being home, Tony can still feel each bone in Peter’s back in a way he never could before. Just another in the long list of things Tony tries really hard not to think about because they make him want to drink a lot and cry, really. 

Peter’s head is handing down, curtain of hair obscuring his face. At any other time, Tony would’ve ran his fingers through it, marveling at the fact that he’s able to do that again while cracking a joke about how Peter looks like he has a bird’s nest growing on top of his head, but the post-nightmare haze that settles over them always leaves Tony feeling heavy and uncertain, almost hesitant to touch Peter because he doesn’t want to make the kid more scared than he already is. 

“It’s just -” Peter’s face twists in frustration, brows shooting together as his hands wave around in front of his face. “I don’t - _know_ what it is, I just - I - there’s so much that’s - that I’ve done and I just -” He exhales heavily, pressing his face into the palms of his hands. Tony can feel his body trembling underneath his own hand, the boy’s torso vibrating with the force of some unspoken emotion he’s trying to bury under layers of Netflix and avoidance. 

“I want my life back,” Peter whispers. He sounds like exactly  what he is - a kid. A scared, seventeen year old kid who’s been through an unfair amount of shit. “I wanna - I just want things to be normal again.”

“I know, Pete,” Tony murmurs, running his hand up to tangle his fingers through the curls at the base of Peter’s neck. “Sometime the talking thing is how we get to that point, though. It’s really hard to rebuild your life as it is, but doing it alone is even worse.”

Peter keeps on shaking. 

“You don’t have to do this alone, buddy. We wanna help you - _I_ want to help you. I don’t want you to be hurting by yourself, yeah? Take it from the guy who owns the fuckin’ market on that - it _sucks_ . It _sucks_ and it just makes things worse and I don’t want that for you, bud.”

“You don’t -” Peter shakes his head, dragging a hand through his overhanging hair. “That’s not - you don’t have to. I - it’s not your job, I’m not - I’m not worth that.”

“Remember when you told me the thing that really stuck with you that Ned and MJ said was that you _were_ worth all the quote-unquote _trouble_ because, even if you didn’t feel like it at the time, you were still Peter Parker and he’s good, so he deserves stuff like that?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“That still stands true, you know. Just ‘cause you feel more like Peter now - and it’s okay if you don’t - doesn’t refute that statement. You’re _good._ You’ve been through so much. You deserve help, yeah? You’re worth helping, Pete; you’re worth that and so much more.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, the ghost of a smile crossing his lips. “Thanks - thank you, Mr. Stark. I’m -”

“Apologize one more time and I will defenestrate you, kiddo.”

“‘S too early for big words. Two syllables or less or I quit.”

“Nice little turn you’ve taken back to the Stone Age, Mr. Parker. Also, not to burst your bubble or anything, but it is three in the afternoon.”

Peter lays back down, grinning loftily at him. The expression doesn’t come close to matching the blank look of exhaustion in his eyes. “It’s summer, Mr. Stark. I can do what I want. I’m cool like that.”

Tony smiles back, something warm filling his chest. He reaches out to smooth Peter’s hair back from his forehead and shifts his hand down a little, cupping the kid’s cheek. He could’ve sworn that, when Peter presses the side of his face into Tony’s palm on instinct, eyes sliding shut, he was about to float away. 

“Sure are. Now get some sleep, Pete. Love you tons.”

“Love you more, Mr. Stark.”

But Peter doesn’t go back to sleep for a while. The small smile fades off his face as soon as it came to be replaced by the typical, hard-edged expression, and it’s not five hours later that he’s awake again, chest heaving, eyes shining with tears as he presses his face into his knees, frozen solid. Tony’s a lot of things, but an idiot is not one of them, and he knows Peter didn’t believe a word of what he said earlier about him deserving help. And he doesn’t have to sit there long to realize, somewhere in the spaces between between Peter’s rasping breath, that they need to do something about this. 

 

* * *

* * *

 

By the time Peter's well into the second or third week of almost daily nightmares, Tony's had an idea. A bad, useless, totally-doesn't-cover-for-all-the-shit-he-caused idea, but an idea nonetheless, and it's the best he can do. He recruits May and Pepper to help him smooth out the kinks before deciding to bring it to the table - literally - for Peter one evening.

They're in their usual position - Peter curled up at the front of his bed, shoulder wedged against the headboard and legs dangling off the side as Tony sits next to him, own legs crossed, one hand slowly rubbing Peter's back as the boy blinks himself back into reality, panting.

“Think you’re gonna get back to sleep, Pete?” Tony murmurs as the kid’s breathing finally stabilizes.

Peter exhales, long and slow, and wordlessly shakes his head.

Tony squeezes his shoulder. “Wanna play a game?”

The kid looks up, a brief flicker of surprise crossing his exhaustion-ridden face. “Huh?”

“A game. Like Apples to Apples. Or Monopoly.”

“You want to play Apples to Apples right now?”

Tony huffs. “No, that was an example. I have another game in mind, and I was wondering if you want to play.”

“What - what’s it called?”

“Um - the, uh, the Tony Stark game.”

“That’s a horrible name, Mr. Stark.”

“Pretty on brand for me, I’d say. I’m hoping you haven’t forgotten about BARF.”

“BARF?” Peter echoes, a frown crossing his face as he stares down at the ground, hands clenching and unclenching in front of him. “I -”

“It’s okay,” Tony steps in quickly, internally slamming his head against a wall at his god-awful choice of words. “Don’t worry about it. But, anyways, you up for the game?”

Peter presses his fists against his thighs and breathes out slowly. “Uh, yeah,” he says after a pause. “Yeah. Sure.”

They make their way into the kitchen slowly, the lights flickering on automatically as they walk. Peter keeps a good three feet of distance between him and Tony, his face carefully arranged into an expression of blankness and his fists pressed tight against his body. Tony does his best to not focus too much on that and instead just pulls out a chair for Peter at the dining room table in silence, picking up the stack of cards he’d printed out earlier and setting them down in front of the two of them.

“It’s a very simple game,” Tony explains, neatly arranging the stack before folding his hands in front of him, fingers interlocking. “We take turns drawing cards. On each card is a question. The person who drew the card answers the question, and then it’s the other person’s turn. We can play for as long as you want, really; there’s no way to win the Tony Stark game. It’s just like - twenty questions, or something. Or truth or dare - minus the dare part; Pepper will probably skin me alive if we wake her up at four in the morning because you dared me to try and climb on top of the fridge again.”

“I did that?” Peter’s gaze is dazed. His body is tucked into itself like he’s trying to take up as little space in the room as possible. 

“Probably not,” Tony says easily. “Think it was a dream. So, you wanna go first, or should I?”

Peter stares at the stack of cards in silence for a full twenty seconds before looking back up at Tony. “Is this - is this a trap?”

Tony tries to ignore the way his heart twists inside of his chest at the beginnings of fear that start to creep into Peter’s voice. Instead, he just taps the top of the deck with one finger, and shoots for a smile. “Not at all, Pete. Some of the questions are personal, some of them aren’t. It’s what I’d like to think of as a nice, healthy mix.”

Peter’s frown deepens. “What - what if I don’t want to answer?”

Tony spreads his hands. “Then you don’t have to. I would love for you to at least give it a shot - and honestly, too, mind; I’ll be holding myself to the same standards - but if you really don’t feel comfortable with answering - or playing - then I’m not going to force you, okay? It’s your call. I just -  I know May has mentioned the idea of going to talk to someone - a therapist, but -”

“I don’t want a therapist,” Peter mutters, almost visibly receding back into himself.

“And that’s fine. But you gotta talk to _someone_ . Even just a little bit. You’re getting your memories back, and that’s _great_ , but that means the bad stuff is gonna sneak up on you too, as well as the good, and we need to get to the point where you can at least _say_ what some of the bad stuff is, okay? I’m not asking you to bare your soul or tell me every single detail you’ve remembered, just - humor me, okay, kiddo? If you really don’t want to play, you don’t have to, and if you start playing and realize you hate his, we can stop. But I think it might be good, yeah? Plus,” he adds, trying to keep his voice light. “I love learning new things about you. It makes Christmas shopping so much easier.”

Peter blinks, then smiles a little. “Okay. You - uh, can you go first?”

Trying not to grin too hard, Tony nods and pulls a card off the top of the deck. “Yessir. Alright, this one says - _favorite childhood memory_. Oof. Well, I was born in Manhattan - as you know - but I spent a lot of time in LA, mostly over the summer. Howard worked a lot, so a lot of the time it’d just be me, my mom, and Jarvis. Those summers were a lot of fun. My mom taught me how to cook and speak Italian and play piano then, and it was just - yeah.” Tony swallows back the surge of emotion that accompanies all things Maria Stark and nods. “Nothing specific, but a good time.”

Peter nods back slowly. “I didn’t know you could play,” he says after a pause.

Tony smirks, shoving down the fact that Peter definitely does know because Tony cay can distinctly remember trying to teach him Fur Elise on at least three separate occasions, at the kid’s insistence, and jerks his head to the pile. “Your turn.”

Unease setting back over his face, Peter reaches out and pulls the top card off, squinting at its face. “Favorite candy,” he reads aloud, then grins. “Airheads.”

“God, I can feel my teeth rotting in my head just thinking about them.”

“You’re just mad because you hate sour things,” Peter says, setting the card aside and grinning a little. “Mr. _I-only-eat-almond-roca.”_

“Almond roca is good, for your information,” Tony says, drawing another card. “Favorite movie. God, that’s hard. Tie between _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_ or _Nightcrawler_. I know you’ve seen _Nightcrawler_ \- we watched it together - but have you ever seen Ferris Bueller?”

Peter frowns, scrunching his nose up a little. “Uh, no. Don’t think so?”

“Well, I know what we’re doing after this, then. You go.”

“Uh - _most embarrassing childhood memory.”_ Peter grins suddenly, setting the card down. “One time I - I was with May and Ben and we’d gone down to Philadelphia for some holiday trip and we were in this _huge_ mall and there were these big stairs with this railing and I decided to try and slide down them but I, like, fell, or something, and crashed right into this old lady and her dog.” he laughs, shaking his head. “May was _so_ mad, it was so stressful, but Ben couldn’t stop laughing. I was, like, eight at the time, I think?”

Tony snorts, drawing another card. “Nice. _Name a phobia you have._ Hm. Aquaphobia, I’d say. Though I just mostly mind the dunking my head underwater bit. Not sure if there’s a specific _phobia_ for that.”

He sets the card down carefully and forces his gaze away from his hands to meet Peter’s unblinkingly. When he swallows, he can taste salt for a few seconds and feel metal scraping along his throat, edge of something digging into his windpipe, but then it fades away and the room around him slides back into focus.

“You okay?” Peter murmurs, tipping his head to the side.

Tony nods, tapping the deck. “All good, Pete. You’re up.”

Peter picks up another card and reads it silently, face tightening. “What was your last dream about?” he says flatly, setting the card back down. The kid stares at his hands for a minute or two, fingernail digging into one of the wood grooves in the table, jaw tight. “Midtown,” he says after a pause. “I - when I went there to plant a bomb, I - yeah. Yeah.”

Tony gets the sense that Peter’s not going to say anything else about it unless Tony physically drags the words out of his mouth, so he just nods slowly, carefully storing that information away to be looked at later, and draws another card. “Favorite animal? Cats. No question about it.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Everyone knows dogs are superior. You’re just dumb _. What is one thing you regret?”_ Peter narrows his eyes, looking alost offended. “Why do all my cards suck all of a sudden?”

Tony huffs a laugh. “Hey, be nice. I think your aunt wrote some of these.”

Peter grimaces. “Can I just say the last nine months?”

“If that’s true then yeah, sure. Is it?”

Peter blinks. His expression has gone blank again, but Tony can see something sharp and raw flicker across his face every so often. 

“I’ve done - I’ve done a lot of really bad stuff, Mr. Stark,” the kid says after what feels like an impossible amount of time. “Like - I - I shot you? And beat you up and set off all those bombs and I would - he would bring in people and I’d have to - to fight them and some of them were - they were really young, Mr. Stark, and I fought them, and - I don’t - I didn’t want to but I sort of did, too, and I did it anyways so doesn’t even matter and I just -” 

Peter’s voice starts to shake and the kid snaps his jaw shut, teeth audibly clicking together. His hand balls on the table top, knuckles going white, and Tony realizes with a sick feeling that this is probably the reason Peter’s been letting his nails grow out. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out across the table and grabs onto Peter’s hand, slowly prizing it open and flattening it out with his own hand.

“Peter,” he says slowly, running his thumb across the kid’s wrist. “Everyone’s done a lot of bad stuff. In case you’d forgotten, I produced weapons that killed god-knows how many people for almost two decades before I had my whole change of heart, and I wasn’t even brainwashed. You don’t judge me for that, do you?”

Peter’s face screws up. His hand is shaking underneath Tony’s and - not for the first time and most definitely not for the last - Tony wishes more than anything that he could just soak up every piece of shit the kid has had to deal with in his only seventeen years of living and absorb it into his own life. If anyone deserves nothing but sheer, unadulterated happiness, it’s the small, exhausted-looking boy sitting in front of him.

“Do you?” Tony prompts gently.

Peter inhales, breath hitching in the back of his throat, and shakes his head.

“Then why should I judge you? You forgave me; you’re allowed to forgive yourself, too.”

Peter shakes his head again, eyes shining. “I - can’t,” he whispers. “Mr. Stark - I can’t.”

Tony squeezes his hand again and tries desperately to ignore the cracking feeling in his chest, like there’s a sheet of ice surrounding his lungs and someone’s started stomping on it. “That’s why I’m here,” he whispers back. “That’s why everyone’s here. To help you get to a place where you can.”

Peter drops his head, eyes squeezing shut. His shoulders are shaking silently and, with one hand still wrapped around Peter’s, Tony carefully pulls the cards away from the kid and sets them aside. Enough for tonight.

 

* * *

* * *

 

“Okay, okay, uh - _favorite thing about your mother/maternal figure?”_ Peter reads, smiling faintly. “Wow. Good one Miss Potts.”

“Yeah,” Tony says loftily, tipping his chair back a little and staring at the overhead lights. “She’s pretty awesome. Also for about the billion and twelfth time, _please_ call her Pepper. Hearing anyone call her Miss Potts brings me back to 2010.”

 _“You_ call her Miss Potts,” Peter points out. 

“That’s different. It’s romantic; I’m making her fall in love with me.”

 _“Wow._ How’s that going for you?”

Tony snorts at the dryness in the kid’s voice. “Asshole. You gonna answer or am I going to have to fetch May and tell her you drew a blank for that one?”

“Can I say everything?”

“Normally I hate your blanket responses, but this one is fine. Your aunt is a saint in human form. I’m pretty sure she has negative amounts of flaws.” Tony lets the legs of his chair drop back to the ground again as he reaches across the table to study a card, holding it up to the light. _“Do you want kids?”_ He snorts. “Wow, nice family theme we have going on here tonight. Um.” Tony scratches his head, thinking for a moment. Kids have always felt - a little out of the question for him. It’s not that he doesn’t like them - the opposite, really - but between being Iron Man and having just a few too many brushes with death to be entirely healthy and just generally being sort of a mess, Tony had always felt like him having kids would be irreparably dooming the unborn children to a life far below the quality they would deserve. He’s not even sure if he would know _how_ to be a dad in the first place - it’s not like the exact nature of his own father and all his backhands and brandy glasses is a secret, really - and the thought of somehow managing to fuck his own kid up like that terrifies him beyond words.

 So Tony just shrugs, setting the card aside. “Maybe one day when I’m a little less - you know.”

 _“You know_ what?”

Tony waves a hand absently around. _“You know,”_ he says again empathetically. “Bad.”

Peter glares at him. “You’re not _bad.”_

Tony’s thoughts flit to the bunker, to the blood on the dirt and Peter’s shaky voice as he forced out what he thought would really be his last words, to the holding cell and Toomes’s base and the wire in Peter’s head, to the continually broken bones and lung lacerations, to the kid flinching at every loud noise and every raised voice and every gesture that comes too close to him too quickly, to the countless times the kid still wakes up in the middle of the night, screaming and panting and crying, and Tony has to grit his teeth against a heady wash of bitterness and guilt that surges up his throat.

“Besides,” he says, shaking the lingering memories out of his head. “What do I need a kid for now? I have you and your nerd friends MJ and Ned who have basically moved in here. I’m up to my neck in kids now.”

Peter snorts a little and draws his next card without complaint, but Tony doesn’t miss the way his gaze rests on him for a fraction longer than needed, or flicker of sadness so strong Tony can almost feel it pass through his eyes as he looks back down at his next card.

 

* * *

* * *

 

After a particularly bad night in which it takes Tony and May combined to calm Peter down from yet another dream, Tony cracks.

He’d been exercising more self-control than he even knew he had to not watch the video files Steve had finally sent over, and he’s almost - _almost_ \- managed not to do it. He’d come so close, so close to telling Friday to wipe the files and put them somewhere where he would never be able to find them, so close to not doing the _one thing_ that Steve and Bucky and May and Helen and Pepper had all told him, time and time again, would only make him feel a billion times worse.

So close, and yet not quite. 

Forget _a cheap trick and a cheesy one-liner_ , _that_ should be the title of his memoir. 

Somehow, without really paying much attention to it, Tony ends up in his office. Probably for the best. His work computer is still downstairs somewhere - kitchen, if he remembers correctly; he and Pepper had been reviewing some payroll stuff for the company when Peter’s nightmare had started - but a part of him knows what he;s about to do before he;s even fully conscious of it and that part tells him that he’s not going to want to be sitting in the middle of the fucking kitchen for this one.

Tony lowers himself into his desk chair and turns on the monitor by hand. Normally, he’d get Friday to boot everything up while he wandered around the room looking for something to snack on, but right now his whole body feels tense and strung-out, like even the smallest movement is going to shatter him into a million pieces, and the idea of _eating_ something is completely beyond him.

So he turns on the monitor and trawls through his desktop before finding the files Steve had sent him and clicking open the folder, jaw clamped shut against anything and everything that feels liable to explode out of him this very second. He hasn’t had another meltdown like he did the day of Peter’s arrival, and he’s not looking to repeat that incident, so he just sits there, stony-faced and furiously controlled, swallowing around a what feels like a mouthful of thumbtacks and broken glass, and stares at the computer screen as the first video file he’d clicked on loads. 

He’s not sure what he’s expecting. He’s not sure what he thinks he’s going to find - or hopes, really. These are the video clips of his kid being brainwashed and tortured, for god’s sake; it’s not going to be a walk in the park looking at them.

Tony’s honestly not that sure as to why he _is_ looking at them. Masochism, maybe. A self-imposed guilt trip. Maybe he secretly _wants_ to have another meltdown - who knows? Tony doesn't care enough to think too much on the subject. He just wants to watch the videos.

He gets through twelve of them before he realizes he’s fallen out of the chair. 

Tony’s not even aware of falling, really. One second he’s watching the now too-familiar, grainy CCTV footage of a seventeen year old boy strapped into what looks like a dentist chair from hell, thick black bands wrapped around his ankles, knees, chest, arms, and forehead as some invisible force shocks the fucking daylights out of him, making the kid thrash around and scream in a way that goes straight to Tony’s heart and collapses his body in from the inside out, and then the next he’s on the floor, corner of the desk digging into his back, chair leg stabbing the base of his spine.

He can’t think. He can’t breathe. The only thing going through his body is the sound of Peter screaming. 

They were laughing. They - the fucking excuses for humans that are Toomes and his buddies - were standing at the edges of the footage, crossing their arms, and _laughing_ as Peter - as Tony’s kid; as _his kid_ \- thrashed around, begging them to stop. 

For a second, Tony thinks he’s going to throw up, but he just swallows and forces out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Then another, then another, then suddenly he’s gasping for air, the noises harsh and grating around the quiet of the office room.

Tony can’t breathe. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and folds his legs up against his chest and tries to fucking breathe, but he can’t.

They did that to Peter. 

They were laughing. 

Tony _let_ this all happen. He let them take Peter, he let them do all that to the kid, he’s letting the kid - the fucking seventeen year old _child_ downstairs - pay the price for his fucking mistakes, for his screw-ups, for his rampant inability to keep anyone he loves  _safe_.

Somewhere above him, the door cracks open, and Tony’s dimly aware of a strip of yellow light flooding across the carpet at someone - he can’t tell who - steps inside. They make their way around the desk, saying something he _can’t fucking hear_ over the sounds of Peter’s screams echoing around his skull and, after a moment of pause, crouch down next to him.

“Tony?” a voice murmurs - Pepper - and Tony presses his face into his knees and keeps it there. “Tony - are - what’s going on?”

Breathe. Breathe. “Nightmare,” he forces out. His throat is burning. “Kid - had a nightmare.”

“What -”

“Watched them.” Tony’s voice is miraculously steady. The snort that comes after feels like it’s ripping his body in half. “Fuck - watched _twelve_ of them.”

Pepper’s hands hover in the corners of his vision, half-extended like she wants to reach out and touch him but doesn’t know if she can. Tony wants her to - he wants so bad for her to just wrap her arms around him and hold him until his breathing levels and his eyes stop stinging and the glass lining his throat disappears and he stops feeling _like this_ \- but, then again, those twelve videos are a testament to how Tony does not deserve the things he wants right now, if nothing else.

“The videos?” she echoes softly.

Tony presses his face down harder, stars popping in his vision, and draws in a shuddering breath. “Footage. Stuff that Steve send - over -”

Now she does touch him, reaching out to grab at his face and hair and lift him upwards so that they’re locking eyes. It’s only now as he realizes he can’t really see her face except for the dull glow of her hair and her shining eyes that he notices the lights are off and the room is in near total darkness. Maybe it’s better that way.  

“Why?” she murmurs, shifting closer so their knees are brushing together. She swipes a thumb under one of his eyes and - of course, of fucking course - he realizes he was crying - still is.

Tony just shakes his head. “He just - he won’t say but I know, Pep - there’s so much and I know and I want to help and I - _fuck_ \- I have to because it’s _me_ and I fucking - _dragged_ him into this and I just - _have_ to know but there’s so many videos and I could only watch _twelve_ -”

His forehead hits her shoulder before he knows what he’s doing and he jerks back suddenly, base of his skull smacking against the desk drawer with a _crack_ he barely feels. Pepper hisses, eyes narrowing in the darkness, and reaches out to him. Something hard and cold wraps around his ribs and squeezes, making him jerk back again.

“I’m - fuck -” He scrubs at his face with both hands, breath still shuddering. “This isn’t - this isn’t your job, I should be - I shouldn’t be fucking _like_ this; I’m sorry -”

“Tony,” Pepper says again, cupping his face in her hands and pulling him towards her a little. “It’s okay.”

“He’s -”

“I know.” Even in the darkness, he can feel the calmness and resolution filling her gaze, and it makes his breathing level out a little. “I know. And it’s still going to be okay. Remember when I said that? I meant it. It’s going to be okay - _he_ is going to be okay.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

And, bit by bit, Pepper’s words start to come true.

 

* * *

* * *

 

They’re at dinner when Peter finally says it. 

It’s just him and the kid that night - May has since returned to work in an effort _to feel just a little bit like the world is still turning_ , she explains to Tony - and they’re about halfway through the takeout when Pever sets his fork down and stares intently into the contents of his rice.

“You having a vision over there, Pete?” Tony asks him around a mouthful of noodles. “Discovering the answer to life, the universe, and everything inside the contents of your fried rice?”

“It’s 42,” Peter mutters, unblinking. He picks up his fork, stares at it for a second, and then puts it back down. “I want to go to therapy.”

Tony makes sure his next breath is level. He stabs a noodle with his fork and exhales slowly. “Alright. Bucky’s got a good person he’s been talking to ever since he came back to New York - I’ll call her up and see when we can meet with her, okay?”

Peter nods, spinning his fork between his fingers. He looks hesitant, like he’s not sure how he’s supposed to be reacting. “Okay,” he finally says, and the smile that starts to curl around the corners of his lips makes every single bad thing Tony’s ever lived through feel suddenly worth it. “Okay.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

The therapist - Dr. Margret Boyd - is probably one of the nicest people Tony thinks he’s ever met. She’s everything he’s ever hoped to be with Peter - kind and patient and gentle and understanding on a level that came almost close to unsettling if it wasn’t so _damn nice_. Her office is small, the walls decorated with some family photos, a few official-looking framed documents, and a billion and one post-it notes. The whole place smells like cinnamon and, even though Peter’s been wound so tight Tony was half-afraid he was going to snap and shatter into a thousand pieces on the drive over there, the kid relaxes within five minutes of being in the office.

Peter asks to go in alone, which makes Tony feel a lot of conflicting emotions that he decides not to unpack. Instead, he just turns Peter to face him, smoothing his hands over the kid’s shoulders, and grins at him.

“I’m really proud of you for doing this, Pete,” he mutters, sliding his hands down to squeeze Peter’s forearms lightly. “No matter what happens, I’m so proud.”

Peter gives him a crooked, watery smile and, before Tony can blink again, the kid’s face is pressed up against his chest, head slotting perfectly underneath his chin, hands reaching around to grab loose fistfuls of Tony’s shirt. Swallowing hard, Tony wraps his own arms around Peter, one hand wrapping around his shoulders and the other going to tug at the curls at the base of the kid’s neck.

“Thank you,” Peter mutters into Tony’s chest. His breath is a little shaky. “Mr. Stark, I - thank you so much. For everything. I love you.”

The backs of Tony’s eyes burn a little. “Love you too, bud,” he mutters into the top of the kid’s head and, a little reluctantly, releases him. “Go time?”

Peter blinks, sniffs, then nods, smiling slowly. “Yeah. Go time.”

Dr. Boyd smiles at him as Peter steps inside to her room, looking around a little hesitantly. Tony smiles back, the expression coming to his face easier than he expected, and settles down in one of the chairs lining the room, folds one arm across his chest and stuffs his other hand into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He unlocks it and pulls up the phone app, hitting May's contact and moving the phone up to his ears, listening to it ring.

"Hi," she says after a pause. She sounds a little breathless. "Everything okay?"

"All good," Tony informs her, studying one of the pictures on the walls. "She seems just as nice in person. Pete looked pretty relaxed. They have about 30 something minutes left. If he decides to carry on with her, all proceeding sessions will be a full hour."

He hears May exhale, her relief tangible even through the phone. "Good. Good. He - yeah. Thank you for getting this all set up - god, you're a literal lifesaver -"

Tony smiles a little. "Hey, you did all the heavy lifting. Kid said you were great with him, talked to him about how you dealt with Ben's passing and all that."

"Yeah, yeah, I -" She coughs. "Yeah. After he died, you know, I had Peter to look out for and he was really beaten up by it so I figured I could do the whole helping him thing and someone who had more than half a clue as to what they were doing could help me. It - really helped, actually. Probably wouldn't have gotten though it. i just hope - it'll work the same for Peter, too."

Tony nods, though she can't see it. "I'm sure it will. There's only so much we can do as parents, you know? Well, parent and vague adult authority figure. After a point, the best hands stop becoming our own, I think. I was in therapy for a while after that whole debacle with Aldrich Killian and it did me worlds of good, and I honestly think this'll have the same effect on Peter."

"I think so, too." May sighs. "I really hope so."

"I wanted -" Tony rubs the bridge of his nose with the side of his hand and frowns a little. "I wanted to say - while I have you here; I know you gotta get back to work so I'll keep this quick - thank you. For everything, May. For everything you've done for him his whole life and these past months and for everything you've done for me, too. It - yeah. I just wanted you to know I'm incredibly grateful for you, and I don't think anyone on earth could've done a better job raising this kid and getting him through everything than you."

"Like I can take all the credit," May huffs, her voice warm. "These past few years with you - you've done more than you know for him."

Tony sighs, casting his gaze over to the closed door beside him. "I really hope so."

"You have," May repeats, conviction bleeding through her voice. "We both have."

And, strangely enough, a part of Tony starts to believe her.

 

* * *

* * *

 

“I really like her,” Peter informs him half an hour later when they’re in the elevator, headed back down to the car park. “I - can I maybe go back? Soon?”

Tony doesn’t bother to bite back a grin. “Of course, Pete. May and I were thinking every three days to get started? Does that sound okay?”

Peter grins back. He still looks the same type of tired he has ever since he showed up at the Tower that one day back in June, but there’s something new in his eyes; a glint of something bright shining through the fog of permanent exhaustion. He still looks tense, still looks like he’s constantly bracing for impact or attack, but maybe - _maybe_ \- Peter’s loosened up just a little. Maybe.

“Sounds great,” the kid says. Then, as the elevator doors slowly hiss open, “Race you back to the car!”

And Tony has just enough time to roll his eyes, the exasperated motion nowhere near matched by the a swell of warmth that fills his chest, before he races off after Peter, laughing like a little kid. 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 _“What is your favorite thing about yourself?”_ Peter reads aloud, squinting at the card. It’s a few weeks after the first meeting with Dr. Boyd too place, and rain is pounding on the windows outside, rushing down to the street below in little rivulets. The grey light from outside floods into the kitchen, giving the whole room an atmospheric, almost ethereal quality to it. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and the Tower is pretty much empty except for Tony and Peter.

The kid in question rubs the bridge of his nose, frowning for a moment. “I don’t know,” he says after a pause.

Tony props his head up with his hands and snorts. “I know for a fact you can do better than that,” he says warningly. “I have a list of about twenty different things on hand at all times so you are going to have to give a bit more than _I don’t know_.”

Peter rolls his eyes, cheeks going a little pink, and huffs. “I - this is weird,” he whines. “I’m gonna sound so - _narcissistic,_ or something.”

“Nothing narcissistic about appreciating the good about yourself from time to time,” Tony says lightly, arching his eyebrows at the kid. “Really? You got nothing? Do I have to bust out the list?”

“God, no,” Peter mutters, scrubbing at his face like he’s trying to wipe the smile Tony can see forming away. “I - I’m nice. I try and be nice and I try and be good. Maybe that’s it - I try. Even though I kind of -” Peter makes an aborted waving gesture with his hands, something dark passing across his face, and Tony grabs the deck before that can progress any further.

“You’re trying,” he says simply, drawing a card and not looking at it, instead locking eyes with the kid and pinning his gaze there. If anything, he needs Pete to understand this. “You’re trying. That’s all that matters.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

“Favorite sport? Not applicable. I hate sports.”

“C’mon, Mr. Stark, you gotta like some sports. Soccer! - soccer is pretty cool, right? What self-respecting person doesn’t like FIFA?”

“This vaguely self-respecting person. Trust me, kid, when you’re forced to play hours upon hours of a sport in the pouring rain during the middle of December, it loses a lot of its appeal in your adult life.”

“That sounds barbaric.”

“Mh. It was. Your go.”

“Okay, okay, uh - _favorite band?_ Ned made me listen to Bastille a while ago; they’re really good.”

“Shocked and offended you didn’t say AC/DC there, but I digress. _Favorite food?_ Hamburgers. Any other answer is incorrect.”

“Your cholesterol must be really loving you, Mr. Stark - kidding! I’m _kidding -”_

“Smart ass. What’s yours? If you say some shit lie quinoa I swear on all that is holy I’m booting you off the top of the Tower.”

“Quinoa isn’t _that_ bad -”

 _“Eugh_ , no. You sound like Pepper. This is awful. Pick a card before I throw up all over you.”

“You’re so gross - look, this one says it right here _. Is Mr. Stark gross?_ Oh, that’s easy. Yes.”

“Careful! That’s breaking the rules of the Tony Stark game - patent pending - and if you break the rules and I’m legally allowed to eat all your cereal.”

“You wouldn’t -”

“Watch me, punk. What’s the card say?”

Peter, still grinning, eyes sparkling in a way Tony hasn’t seen in what feels like years, studies the card for a second before tossing it aside, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. He’s dressed in what Tonu’s pretty sure is one of Ned’s shirts and one of Tony’s flannels, the sleeves almost comically long on him. They brush against the table as Peter frowns a little, considering the question. The kid’s hair is sticking up nearly vertically and his gaze is a little bleary with sleep, but in a good way. It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, and Tony had just finished downing his coffee when peter had burst into the kitchen from his room, waving the card deck and yammering on about playing. 

It marks the fifth night in a row that Peter hasn’t woken up and, as he sits there, staring at the kid across the table from him, practically basking in the warmth that radiates off of him, Tony can barely believe it. 

“It said, _are you happy?”_ Peter says after a while, tipping his head to the side.

Tony swallows back a weird surge of emotion and mirrors Peter’s head tipping, raising his chin at the kid a little. “Well? Are you?”

Peter blinks once, then exhales. “Yeah,” he says, and he’s still smiling. “Yeah, I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can y'all FUCKIN BELIEVE....THIS IS THE SECOND TO LAST CHAPTER IM LOSING MY MIND?? THIS IS ALMOSt DONE WTF WTF WTF FREAKING OUT OK! THIS IS LITERALLY 9K WORDS LONG SKFJKSKJ SORRY ENJOY THIS WHILE I FINISH UP THE LAST (?????) (WTF??????) CHAPTER!!! OK LOVE YOU ALL <333


	30. stars

Before Peter’s even aware of it, it’s springtime again.

It’s weird. The whole past several months - since the start of October - have been weird, really. Not a bad weird, necessarily, but definitely _weird_ , considering the fact that, this time last year, he was probably lying in some bunker cell underground, half-dead and unable to remember his first name. Either that or he was in the holding cell, or running around the streets of Manhattan, or back in Toomes’s base. Time passed weirdly during the nine months he spent with the man and Peter had thrown away any semblance of a calendar within a week of being with him, so there’s no way to tell for certain where he would’ve been. Point is, Peter was somewhere - doesn’t matter where - and that somewhere was very likely a horrible place. 

He’s not anymore, though. Sometimes when Peter feels himself slipping, feels himself falling back into the pit that is all things Toomes and those nine-odd months he was gone, Peter reminds himself that. He isn’t there anymore. Toomes is in prison - his trial is starting in just over a month; Peter’s not entirely sure how that makes him feel - the HYDRA agents who were involved are similarly incarcerated or just flat-out dead. Peter is safe. He’s home. He’s back with his friends and family and back in school. He can sleep through the night. He can go swimming without crying. He doesn’t stare in the mirror for hours on end, examining each mark and scar on his body and nearly screaming with frustration when he can’t remember where half of them came from. He understands his own mind. He understands the people around him. He’s _remembered_.

He hasn’t heard _that voice_ , felt that tug in his gut telling him to kill and hurt and fight his way back to the bunker, back to the only place he remembered or recognized or felt like he belonged in months. He hasn’t felt like Number Three in even longer. 

Peter is home and he’s safe and, shock of all shocks, he’s happy.

That had been the worst part, in a way. Not the medical recovery, not the constant battle with his memory, but the almost inalienable feeling of sadness and emptiness that had settled over him in the weeks and months after he arrived back at the Tower. Peter had remembered enough to know that he was, fundamentally speaking, a dangerous, harmful person. Suddenly he could remember everything - beating up Tony and shooting him, the Midtown bombing, Szeged, the countless other missions and tasks Toomes and his crew had forced him to carry out - in frightening clarity, and it made him want to crawl out of his own skin. It made him want to smash every mirror he could see his reflection in. it made him want to run away again, to throw himself out the window and disappear, never to talk to May or Tony or Ned or MJ or _anyone_ ever again.

And, for a long time, that had been all he could feel. The guilt surrounding everything he had done during those nine months, the endless playback of _why did you do that why did you do that why did you_ do _that_ left no room in his head for basically anything else. 

But then the list had come back to haunt him, and the benevolent forces of May and Tony’s inexplicable yet insanely strong - almost to an unbelievable extent - had crashed down on his shoulders ad slowly hauled him back to reality. They were there for him when he had been convinced everyone should stay twenty feet clear of him at all times, which kind of made sense, really. If he thought about the list, at least. Them always being there were - and still is - numbers three and four on that list he had created within the first few weeks of being back at the Tower. He’s since discarded it - it got ineffective to keep it in his mind when he started remembering more than he was able to properly categorize - but he holds onto the first few points for when things do start to drift back into bad territory, and neither May nor Tony gave him any reason to stop doing so.

Because they do and they always will sometimes, really. That’s part of the recovery thing - the drifting, the bad days and slip ups and staring matches with his reflection in the mirror - or so he’s been told. So when they hit - and they do, no matter how hard he or May or Tony or Ned or MJ or Dr. Boyd tries to take preventative actions and stop them - he repeats numbers one through six on his list until he’s feeling like Peter again.

Like himself. Because he is Peter now - most of the earlier distinctions that had driven him insane and made him want to crawl out of his body and hide somewhere are gone, not even worth mentioning. He can look at Peter’s face and body and feel like it’s _his_ face. He spends time with the people in Peter’s life and they easily become the people in _his_ life, too, without him even having to consciously think about it. He can hear Peter’s thoughts and feelings and recognize them as his own ones, and it’s probably the best feeling in the world.

Things are not as they were. But they’re okay, and he’s okay, and so is everyone else, so that’s all Peter could ask for, really. Summer turns to autumn, which turns to winter, and things stay okay and, bit by bit, Peter starts to relax. So much so that, when the dirty piles of snow around Queens start to melt and finals at school start to hit and the flowers in Central Park start to bloom again, things still keep that _weird_ quality Peter’s used to, but much less so. Some days, he almost feels completely normal.

Like today. It’s the 29th of May. It’s the 29th of May which means it is the one and only Tony Stark’s birthday and, as he is now, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor of the Tower, watching as Tony studies the mass of gifts in front of him with a begrudging smile, Peter feels so, wonderfully normal.

“Open mine first,” Rhodey says sternly as Tony finally approaches the gifts. He’s sitting on one of the lounge chairs, smirking at Tony, who’s sat with Pepper pressed against his side and Peter just next to his legs. May, Steve, Natasha, and Bucky had all dropped off gifts earlier - as well as copious amounts of snacks and takeout - but had all been forced to leave a while ago - May headed back to work and Steve, Bucky, and Natasha on some super-secret mission thing no one was telling him about.

“Hm,” Tony seems to consider that idea for a second. “Pep, can you pass me Steve’s gift?”

“Stark, I swear to god -”

Tony’s face breaks into a huge grin. “Kidding, platypus, kidding. Toss me yours.”

Rhodey extends a foot to prod the large cardboard box sitting at the bottom of the pile. “Toss it yourself. You might break something, though.”

Tony arches an eyebrow at the size of the gift. “I thought that was from Nat,” he muses, carefully brushing aside the rest of the gifts to pull Rhodey’s over to him. “I figured it was some large assorted pieces of weaponry. Or just an empty box with a post-it note inside that had some nice expletive on it.”

Peter snorts and leans back into the couch, face almost-but-not-quite resting against the side of Tony’s knee.

Rhodey’s gift, as it turns out, is multiple gifts all sorts of jammed into one giant Amazon box. The assortment includes an actual platypus stuffed animal that Tony looks at with such an expression of adoration Peter doubles up from laughing, a t-shirt that says ‘War Machine Rox’ in big block letters, a pair of socks with Rhodey’s face on them, several bags of Turkish coffee, a photo album, some candy, and a tie decorated with little Iron Masks on it.

“I, of course, fully expect to see you in that tie during the MIT reunion party,” Rhodey announces as Tony carefully sets the box aside.

“It’s a black tie event,” Pepper remarks, smiling all the same.

“That tie is black,” Peter points out, wrapping his arms around his legs and leaning back into the arm of the sofa some more. “Black-ish.”

Rhodey waves a hand at him, grinning at Tony and Pepper. “See? Peter gets it.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sourpatch.” Tony rolls his eyes between smiles, delving back into the pile to pick out another, much smaller gift. “From Pepper,” he reads aloud, then smiles. “Aw. Pep. You shouldn’t have.”

“You haven’t even opened it,” she remarks, eyebrows raised. “What if it’s a pipe bomb, or something?”

Tony rolls his eyes, flashing a grin at Peter. “Pipe bombs aren't this shape, silly. But if this is an explosive of some sort, I will be a little disappointed and more than a little impressed that you managed to make it without me noticing. Remember that.”

Turns out, it isn’t an explosive of _any_ sort. It’s a small blue box with a ring inside of it propped up on a section of black felt. Tony frowns at it, half-smiling.

“Is this your tastefully subtle way of divorcing me?” he asked after a pause, shooting her a look.

She shoots him one back, rolling her eyes and nudging him with her shoulder a little. “We’re not married yet.”

“Is this a pre-emptive call off of the engagement, then?”

She gives him another look filled with something Peter can’t quite decipher. _“No._  You’re stuck with me. It’s a ring. Not my engagement one, but another new ring which I just purchased for you. Just - there’s a note at the bottom, it explains it properly.”

Tony’s smile turns soft as he presses a kiss to her cheek. “I love a good healthy dose of symbolism,” he says, spilling the ring onto his finger and studying it. “Thank you very much, Miss Potts.”

Her smile is equally as fond. “You’re welcome, Mr. Stark.”

Tony gives her another kiss before turning to Peter, rubbing his hands together. “That just leaves you, Underoos,” he announces, diving back into the pile and pulling out Peter’s gift which May had, helpfully enough, wrapped in Christmas-themed paper. He tries very hard not to groan.

Peter had spent a solid week beforehand freaking out over the fact that he had _absolutely no idea_ what to get Tony. He had consulted every single person he talked to about it - May, Ned and MJ several times, his friends on the AcaDec team once, even Mr. Delmar a few times - and still had drawn a blank.

“What do you do best?” MJ had finally prompted him a few days beforehand at lunch, propping her elbows on the table and leaning over towards him.

“Steal Ned’s food?” he had offered. The back of his hand had still been smarting from where Ned had slapped it following Peter’s third attempt to take a piece of his brownie without his friend noticing.

“He has a point,” Ned had remarked, grinning. “Though I don’t know how you’re gonna gift wrap that, really.”

MJ rolled her eyes passionately. “You guys suck. I mean you’re really good at building stuff, Parker. So…”

Peter frowned. “So, what, build him something?”

She had just shrugged, cracking the top of her soda open. “Make it sentimental, I don’t know. You two are the biggest saps I know; it shouldn’t be too hard, really.”

So he had thought about it some more and then, realizing he literally had four days until Tony’s birthday, kicked himself into action. With a few late nights and a lot of help from Ned, he had finally managed to pull together what he thought - hoped, more like - was an acceptable birthday present for Tony. He had also written a very long, convoluted letter because - why not?

“It’s a, uh, watch,” Peter says helpfully - like the fact that it’s a watch isn’t the most glaringly obvious fact in the world - as Tony pulls of the reindeer-adorned wrapping paper, smirking a little. “I, um, made it? Ned helped. MJ did, uh, the whole _aesthetic_ part because she thinks I can’t design things, which is a little offensive, but - yeah…”

Tony pulls the watch out of the box, studying it, gaze intent. “You made it?” he echoes. He sounds - impressed. Peter relaxes a little. Impressed is good. Peter can deal with that.

He nods, dropping his chin onto his knees and staring up at Tony. “Yeah. I - it can basically function as, like, a really cool Apple watch. I put Miss Potts, Rhodey and my locations into it so you can see where we are, and stuff. There’s a whole voice activation system and you can summon all your suits or talk to whoever you want. It’s like - uh, a StarkPhone and, like, Friday rolled into one, sort of.”

Tony blinks. He looks stunned.

“I also wrote you a letter,” Peter says slowly, frowning. “But - read that later.”

“So much written-themed gifts today,” Tony murmurs, then looks down to Peter, eyes crinkling with the force of his smile. “This is - _amazing_ , Peter. I love it. You have to show me how you put all this together in a bit, yeah?”

Peter grins back, body buzzing with warmth. “Yeah.”

“Thank you,” Tony says, looking him dead in the eyes. His intensity is so strong Peter can almost taste it.

“You’re welcome,” Peter says back, holding his gaze. _Thank_ you _. I love you. Thank you._

 

* * *

* * *

  
  
Later, after all the gifts have been opened and the food devoured and Pepper and Rhodey have started the clean-up process, Peter grave a few seconds to himself in the form of ducking outside and heading up to the roof deck.

He used to spend a lot of time up here when he wasn’t able to sleep but everyone else was. It helped to be somewhere far away and quiet and alone, where he could think about whatever he needed to think about or remember whatever he was trying to - or trying not to, sometimes - without the worry of him waking up Tony or Pepper or May. He likes the company at the best of times - and the not-so-best of times, too, if he’s being honest - but alone time is a new thing he can actually have now, and it’s nice to capitalize off of it every now and then.

So he finds himself taking the well-worn path through the elevator to the top floor and then up through the fire escape stairs to the deck without really thinking about it, and then, before he knows it, he’s there.

Peter crossed the space, sneakers padding against the concrete, and settles himself down against a ledge, facing the rest of Manhattan. He can just make out the dark shadow across the horizon that is Central Park and see lights in the distance glinting off the surface of the Hudson River. Below, the faint sounds of traffic float up to him - cars and buses and bikes streaming past the base of the Tower - and he can even make out a few people, laughing and talking and yelling with their feet slamming into the concrete as they run up and down the sidewalk.

It’s peaceful. Looking at the city below him makes him feel a different kind of safe and secure. The knowledge that, no matter what happens to him, the world will always keep on turning and cars will keep on honking at each other and people will keep running around Park Avenue laughing their heads off used to sort of terrify him - at then very least, if kade him feel hopelessly small and unimportant - but now it’s just comforting. 

After a while, he hears footsteps at the edge of his hearing, and half-turns to see Tony's head slowly emerge from the still-open fire exit hatch. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets and he gives Peter a warm smile that makes the world glow a few shades brighter for a second as he approaches.

”Wondering where you run off to sometimes,” he says, stopping just next to Peter and grinning down at him. “Guessing this is it?”

Peger shirts, smiling back. “Yeah. It’s just - nice to have somewhere to go and think or whatever, I guess.”

Tony nods. The wind ruffles his hair a little, making it stand on end, and they lapse into an easy silence, both staring out into the distance. At some point, Peter shifts his gaze upwards and almost audibly gasps.

“Look,” Peter murmurs, pointing up at the sky. “Mr. Stark, look.”

He can feel Tony’s gaze following his finger, see a small smile spreading out across the man’s face from the corner of his eye as he sees the sky Peter’s pointing at. It’s peppered with what looks like billions of tiny pinpricks of white light, some of them barely visible, some of them big enough to look like miniature suns.

“That’s a lot of stars,” Peter whispers, jaw hanging open a little. It’s kind of childish to be _this impressed_ by _stars_ \- like they’re something he, like, didn’t know existed up until this point, or something - but it’s the middle of New York and seeing stars barely ever happens and suddenly Peter’s hit with a blistering wave of _I am so happy I’m alive_ that he almost sways.

“Sure is, kiddo.” There’s a shuffling noise as Tony slowly lowers himself down onto the ground next to him. Their shoulders brush together and Peter leans into the touch without really thinking about it.

The stars above him aroe bright. The sky is cloudless, and Peter can just see the glow of the moon above him, bathing the whole rooftop in a pale, greyish light. He can hear Tony’s breathing and the faint sound of his heartbeat and feel the man’s shoulder rubbing against his through the fabric of Peter’s hoodie. 

He is okay. They are all okay. 

“I read your letter,” Tony says after a pause. “It - it was something else, kiddo.”

Peter smiles up at the sky. “Good something or bad something?”

He feels Tony’s gaze shift down to him. “Good something. Really - really good something.”

“I was worried it sounded stupid,” Peter admits, shifting a little closer to Tony. 

“Didn’t at all.” Peter can feel Tony press his cheek against the top of his head, stubble tickling his scalp a little, as the man slings an arm around Peter’s back, hand fitting perfectly around the join between his shoulder and neck. “It was incredible. Seriously. I’m framing it in my office and putting a copy on the fridge. I’m gonna read it every day.”

Peter laughs a little, watching as a plane slowly passes across the sky, lights blinking red among a sea of white dots. “I meant everything in it,” he says, suddenly careful about how the words sound when the come out of his mouth, because he wants Tony to understand everything he’s about to say exactly as he means it. “You know? You - I mean - you _know_ -”

_Very eloquent, Parker._

“It’s like - it’s all true, I guess.” He shrugs against Tony’s side. “There’s nothing else too it, really.”

“I mean, that’s subjective -”

Peter turns to face him, frowning a little. “Not any of that,” he says, keeping his voice as serious as possible. “Seriously. You - when I, you know, came home and stuff, it was really hard because I wanted everything to go back to the way it had been and just be _normal_ so bad but it wasn’t and - and that really - _sucked_ , obviously, and I just - I didn’t know how to make it better, you know? And I think a part of me sort of gave up right after I woke up and just decided I was gonna stay stuck in - limbo, or whatever, and never be happy with how I was or how I was feeling, so I kind of thought everyone else would give up, too.”

Tony doesn’t say anything. His eyes are back on the sky, wide and unblinking, but Pete can tell by the way his thumb slowly brushes up and down his neck and the almost imperceptible increase in the man’s breathing that he’s listening to every word.

 “And - and you didn’t. And it’s like - out of everyone you could’ve done all this for, you did it for me, and I just - that’s so - I don’t even know how to describe it. Like, you’re just - always there. Even when I’m being annoying or stupid or mean, or whatever, you’re there. Even though you probably have, like, a million other really important things to worry about and do, you’re there for me. Even when I was supposed to be _dead_ you were there and you never left and it’s like, wow, you know? Like, what did I do to deserve that, kind of? ‘Cause you don’t have to do any of that stuff - you don’t have to, like, pick me up from school or bring me my books when I’ve forgotten them or help me with stuff or be there if I’m not doing great - but you do. And I’m - really lucky. I think that’s what I was trying to say in the letter. That I’m really lucky, and I know that, and I love you.”

There’s a long pause and, for a second, Peter wonders if he crossed some unspoken line, or made Tony uncomfortable, or just didn’t make a single ounce of sense, and starts to panic a little. 

But then Tony shifts a little so that his lips press down on the top of Peter’s head, and a rush of pure, unadulterated love shoots through him so fast it almost makes Peter a little dizzy. He presses his lips together and tries not to smile too much.

“I do it ‘cause it’s you, Pete,” Tony murmurs into his hair, like it’s that simple. Like no further explanation is necessary.

Which maybe it isn’t. Maybe Peter still doesn’t understand why, after everything Peter’s dragged him through, Tony still cares so much, but he does understand how he would react if the roles were switched and Tony was the one who had been dead for six, seven months and brainwashed for nine. He just wouldn't stop. Not until Tony was okay, not until he was safe, not until - most importantly - he was _happy._

Because things - _life_ \- without Tony in them don’t make a whole lot of sense to Peter. It’s like when he does math equations and doesn’t carry the one, or something, and the whole answer gets screwed up, leaving Peter to stare at his work for a solid five minutes, knowing something is wrong but not being able to put a finger on it. He doesn’t want it. As far as he’s concerned, the ideas of _life_ and _Tony_ have become so intertwined that he couldn’t have one without the other if he wanted to - which he really doesn’t. 

“I don’t know if any of that made sense,” Peter says, a little weakly because, all of a sudden, something warm and heavy is starting to clog the back of his throat and make his eyes sting just a little. “Like, at all. I just - that’s why I wrote the letter, actually. I think I make a lot more sense on paper sometimes.”

Tony huffs and clears his throat. “I got it, kid, don’t worry. I - yeah.”

Because he he does. He always does, and it’s one of the millions of reasons Peter loves Tony so, so much. 

“I’m really glad you found me,” he murmurs, tilting his face so it presses into Tony’s shoulder. 

“Yeah?” He can hear the smile in Tony’s voice. “Doesn’t even compare to how happy I am that we found you, so.”

”Wanna bet?”

”You’d lose.”

”You wish.”

Tony snorts softly. “Things make a lot more sense when you’re around, kid. The world stopped turning for me when you disappeared, and now it’s started back up again. I don’t - there’s no way to describe what - what that means, or how much it’s - how much _you_ just make things better. I - you being home, it just - it makes everything worth it.”

Peter nods, swallowing back a rush of emotion that clogging his throat. “Wow,” he says after a pause. “MJ was right. We really are sappy.”

”She said that?” 

“Yep.”

Tony snorts again. “That girl, I swear. She’s not wrong though. _God_ , look at your power. I’m so - emotional now because of you. _Blegh_.”

Peter snickers, nudging him with his shoulder. “Sto-op. You love being sappy with me. It’s, like, your second favorite pastime after being sappy with Miss Potts.”

”Correction: they’re tied, actually. No one takes priority over anyone here.”

”So what I’m hearing is you _are_  admitting to being a huge sap?”

Tony huffs softly. “With you?” he says after a pause, and his voice sounds distinctly misty. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

There's a lot of weight to those words, more than they would ordinarily carry, so Peter lets them sink back into silence so he can fully absorb them, store them safely in the little box in his mind where he keeps everything he needs to remember for the rest of his life.

”I’m really happy,” he blurts our suddenly and, if it weren’t for the stars and the peaceful quiet that’s settled over the street below them and the fact that it’s Tony next to him, Peter might’ve cringed at his saying those words. He doesn’t, though, because he knows that’s the sort of stuff Tony likes to hear him say, and the notion that his happiness makes Tony happy too fills Peter head to toe with warmth, leaving no room for anything else.  

“Yeah?”

”Yeah.”

Tony huffs again. Then clears his throat. “I’m really happy too, kid.”

”You deserve it,” Peter says without even having to think about the words. They’re true, true beyond anything else he’s ever said, and if he believes in one thing, it’s the fav that Tony deserves to be happy. He’d die by that statement, at this point, and not just because a part of him knows Tony would probably do the same thing for him, but because it’s just - _true_. There’s nothing else to it.   

He feels Tony’s hand that isn’t wrapped around him move upwards and it sounds like the man is scrubbing at his face a little. “God,” Tony mutters, voice thick. “You’re - so do you, Pete. So, so much.”

”You think?”

Because he's better and he is happy, but sometimes it’s nice to be reminded that he deserves to feel that way, too.

Tony’s grip on him tightens. “Yeah. I do.”

One day, in the next couple billion years, the sun will collapse in on itself and turn into a black hole, sucking everything in its vicinity into nothingness. Life on Earth will cease to exist in its entirety - if it hasn’t already at that point. There’s something oddly comforting about that inevitability that Peter was never able to appreciate before all the stuff with Toomes happened. Maybe it changes your perspective on stuff like that - nearly dying or losing yourself or whatever happened to him. But Peter has the sneaking suspicion that it’s not because he was brainwashed or messed up or forced to do all the things he was. He has a feeling it’s because of _this_ \- how he is now. Because, the way he sees it, he’s gotten to live these moments - quiet evenings on rooftops watching the stars with Tony - and he’s going to get to live a lot more before his and Tiny’s times are up, and that sort of makes the whole eventual destruction of life as they know it a lot more manageable. Because he got to live this. He got to live this with May and Ned and MJ and Pepper and Rhodey and Tony. He gets to give Tony letters sit on rooftops and tell him how much he cares about him and everything in the entire universe becomes a lot more manageable after that.

Because he has Tony. The world can end when it has to because he has gotten to live a part of life with Tony, and, right now, that’s the only thing he could ever want.

”I love you, Mr. Stark,” he says to the sky. Because he can and he does and he wants Tony to remember it for he rest of his life. No matter what happens, no matter if the sun explodes in ten years or ten billion, Peter will always love him.

Tony squeezes him again, and Peter’s hit by the same dizzying rush of love as before. He grins unabashedly to the stars as Tony presses his lips down to the top of his head again.

(Because he can, and he wants to, and it feels so, so nice to still be able to smile at the stars after everything that’s happened).

”I love you too, Peter,” Tony whispers to the sky.

And that’s it, really. That’s all he’ll ever need.

 

* * *

* * *

 

_Dear Mr. Stark,_

_Wow! It’s your birthday today! (well, actually, at the time of me writing this it’s still a few days beforehand, but you can ignore that for dramatic effect). Happy belated birthday, Mr. Stark! (cue the balloons and trumpet-thingies here). You’re really old now - forty nine years! \- which I think is really cool, in a way. I know you’re going to start compaining about how aged you are or how much your bones hurt and say a lot of dumb stuff like oh, my time is up, I should go to the light now, blah blah blah , and there’s nothing I can do to stop you from saying all that dumb stuff, but, just for the record, I think it’s really cool you’re getting older. First and foremost, it means I can make fun of you for getting grey hairs, which perfectly sets you up to make a joke about how I’m the reason you have them (look how much I do for your comedic output, Mr. Stark, seriously). Also, you can capitalize on your cool grandpa status. Maybe I can even bring you in on Grandparents Day at Midtown! (kidding! May’s already trying to trick you coming in for career day with her anyways, but you didn’t hear that from me). _

_But, no. Jokes aside, I think you should be proud about the fact that you’re getting so old (honestly, 49 isn’t even that old; I don’t know why I keep saying that so much haha). Sometimes I’ll think back on all the things you’ve been through or experienced and, I mean, it’s a lot, right? That’s a lot of bad stuff to have been through, but you got through all of it and you’re still a really good person. Like, I know if any of that stuff happened to me , I’d turn into a total asshole and be horrible to everyone and all that, but you’re the exact opposite. You’re still somehow one of the nicest, kindest, most compassionate (I wrote compassionatest there the first time by accident thought you should know) I’ve ever met and you still try and do so much good for everyone and take such good care of the people around you and I just think that’s really amazing. It’s definitely on the top ten list of things I admire about you as a person which I will bust out later and aggressively recite to you if you read this and start trying to refute everything I’m saying (so don’t even think about it, Mr. Stark. You know I’m right). _

_So, yeah. You should be proud of yourself for making it this far, and you should be proud of who you are and who you’ve become, I think. Not think. I know this as a certified Fact (not the capitalization. It makes this fact even more important and true). I know I’m proud of you, at least, so if you’re still not proud of yourself, at least remember that. _

I’m rambling a lot (sorry!) but I did have a semi-formulated point to this letter beyond the whole happy-birthday-old-man thing, don’t worry. What I _ really _ wanted to use this letter to say was thank you. I know you’re probably sick of me saying that, or something, but I have to say it again and say it properly this time, in a way that makes sense. This time last year, I think I was probably missing-presumed dead to everyone. I had been like that for months and months and, even when I got out of all of that, I still wasn’t great. I was in that place where I really wanted to be fought for and brought back to myself, or whatever, but also completely thought that I didn’t deserve any of that. I mean, honestly, I think I was just really scared, because everything that I felt like I had lived - just me, not Peter Parker - was so connected to Toomes and being Number Three and whatever that I felt like, if I had that all taken away, I wouldn’t know what to do or who to be or how to act. I thought I would be super disappointing, too, because I could tell from talking to you or Natasha and Bucky or Ned and MJ that everyone missed Peter so much and I was so convinced that the sort of different version of Peter I started becoming when I got back would be such a let down to all that. 

_But you didn’t let that idea stick at all. You didn’t let me keep thinking like that and focusing on everything I'd done and how awful of a person I thought I was, which I think was probably the most important thing ever. You, you know, forced me to get up and talk about things and take them at face value and understand that I’m not a chronically awful person because I did things I wasn’t able to control. You got me back to a version of myself that I could understand and care about. You cared for me so much, too. You were so patient and understanding and did so much for me, more than I could ever ask for or somehow repay you for. You were always there when I needed it and helped me when I needed it and knew when to push me into taking care of myself or getting better and you were just so good . Even when I really wasn’t and really didn’t deserve someone like that, you were. I don’t even know how to describe it without sounding insane and repeating myself a million times over, so I hope this makes some amount of sense.  _

_I think the whole point of this monstrosity of a letter (I’m so sorry it’s so long this has more words than half the essays I’ve written this year oops) is just to say thank you. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for helping me to love myself. Thank you for helping me in general and supporting me and being my best friend and favorite old man ever. I’m so lucky I know you, and so lucky you’re still here after all this time and all the crazy stuff I’ve dragged you through. There’s not much else to say other than that, really. Just - thank you. Thank you and I love you and I hope you have the most amazing birthday ever. You deserve it a million times over._

_Love,_

_Peter Benjamin Parker_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> et fin!
> 
> i honestly have no idea what to say abt this other than this fic has been my brain baby for the past 2 months and actually sitting down and writing something to completion has been such a good experience. i could not have done any of this without you guys and your continual support. every single comment or kudos or message abt this fic literally made my day and i am so glad you guys have liked this story. thank every single one of you who’s read this or commented or left kudos or Whatever so so so much it and you mean the world to me!!!
> 
> pls check out the other stuff on my profile! i have 2 more fics i’m updating relatively frequently and gearing up to post some more in the coming months! 
> 
> again thank you all so so much. this story is so important to be and im so glad you guys have liked it too. so much love <3

**Author's Note:**

> follow my tumblr! @tnyystark


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